I
by JustAFantaSea
Summary: An exploration of how the first Hunger Games might have come to pass. Before the Girl on Fire, before The Boy With The Bread, before arenas and mutts and reapings, before even the title of "The Hunger Games," there was a broken country and a shattered girl who fought fire with fire and paid blood with blood.
1. Beyond Salvation

_I'll return from darkness and will save your precious skin  
I will end your suffering and let the healing light come in  
Sent by forces beyond salvation  
There can be not one sensation_

* * *

The only sound in the air was deafening, suffocating silence.

The walls were thick, the doors well-oiled, and the floor a solid stretch of concrete. There were no creaking floorboards to be had, no carpets to rustle one's toes through as one would in one's home. For this was not a home: it was a fortress. One so deftly built even the fluorescent lights above emitted no detectable hum. At the front of the "window room"—ironically named, for the bunker had no true windows—a screen played live footage of District 4 on mute. There wasn't so much as a buzz from the television.

Of all the rows of chairs before the screen, only one was occupied. Barely—it was a wisp of a man that filled the front seat, his small frame dwarfed by the standard metal chair provided to the bunker. He'd always been short, but age had shrunk him further, and the trying times of the war had sucked the fat from his stomach as it had with every other citizen of the Capitol. His emaciation, however, was not entirely natural; as the president of Panem, he'd managed to maintain a level of healthy eating others had not, though it wouldn't do for the people of his beloved city to see their leader addressing them, smiling and plump, when they themselves were wasting away.

The president was no stranger to the aesthetic surgeries that had so delighted his precious Capitol before the freedom to indulge in frivolities had been torn away. On the very day of his election, seven long years ago, he had walked into the most renowned tattoo parlour in Panem with a series of requests. The fourteen seals of their country, one for each district and the Capitol, to be etched permanently into his arms, seven on one, seven on the other. For he was the man elected to unite a then turbulent Panem, and through his own blood, sweat, and tears, he swore he would.

He looked down at his arms now, hidden beneath the sleeves of his suit jacket. In one hand he held a cigar, embers burning bright as he had another puff, but his other hand was free, and he used it to slowly slide back first the jacket sleeves, then those of the shirt underneath, until his arms were bared to the world.

The fourteen seals were gone. Only three remained amidst a sea of round, red scars.

He looked back up at the screen. A newscaster, papers in hand, was mouthing words as live footage continued to play behind her. A Capitol naval fleet was swarming a warship off the coast of 4. Despite the muted sound, the news was clear in the headlines that played in big, bold letters at the bottom of the screen.

 _DISTRICT 4 SURRENDERS_

The president of Panem reached up to remove his cigar from between his lips. Perhaps it was this movement that caused his mouth to twitch into a semblance of a smile. He certainly couldn't have done it himself; after six hard years of war, he'd forgotten how.

He lowered his cigar until it hovered above his right arm, overtop the image of six fish leaping away from a three-pronged hook. It was one of three seals that still remained intact.

And now, it wasn't.

A sharp gasp filled the silent room, accompanied by a faint sizzling as the burning end of the cigar pressed deeper into his skin. Even after eleven such acts, he couldn't stop himself from grimacing. It still hurt, but the pain was _good._ Pain was necessary to cleanse a nation.

Onscreen, the Capitol fleet reached the warship. Men and women in black scaled the ladders draped over its hull to find district citizens waiting for them, kneeling on the deck, hands above their heads.

The commander of the fleet gave a command. As one, the soldiers raised their guns and fired.

The president watched, cleansing his body as Panem itself was cleansed.

The camera switched to a similar scene, this time a team approaching 4's main town centre. Flocks of people milled about in the streets, panicking as the soldiers swung clubs and shouted orders. No guns for the everyday citizens, undoubtedly guilty of cooperation with the rebels, but necessary to get Panem's economy back on its feet. Only pain and punishment for them—a reminder of a past never to be repeated.

The president lifted the cigar from his arm, observing the newest burn in his collection. The room was filled with his strained breaths.

His lip curled at the sound. Anyone who heard would think him weak, and that was not a judgement he could afford. Not anymore.

The sleeves of his shirt came down quickly, his free hand reaching for the television's remote, finger hovering over the unmute button.

At once, noise returned to the world in all its overwhelming and chaotic glory. The newscaster's voice came through the speakers crystal-clear, giving a detailed account of 4's takeover while sounds of screams and gunfire played in the background. Moments later, a violent _bang!_ assaulted his ears.

That hadn't come from the television.

The president turned in his chair to find the door to the window room had been thrown open. A young woman was standing there, framed by the two brutish security guards who'd been charged with standing watch.

"Forgive the interruption, Mister President," one of the guards said. "She said it was important."

He ignored the words, eyes focused on the woman inhaling deeply to recover her breath. She didn't look familiar, but the pin on her suit was a gleaming pigeon encased in a circle of silver. Once the signature badge of Communications had been a _Mimus mutationis_ , or a "jabberjay" as the mutation engineers had affectionately dubbed them, but after that experiment went disastrously awry, they were encouraged to change their look. The president would not stand for anyone wearing an advertisement of the Capitol's failures.

Now, however, he wouldn't have cared if the woman had flown in with wings and a beak. His heartbeat sped as he stood up. "What is it?"

The woman, cheeks flushed and hair in a disarray, managed only a few fragmented sentences. "Your phone . . . was off. Ran . . . to tell you . . . we've made contact with . . . Eleven."

On his arm, the new burn prickled. He swallowed the anticipation clogging his throat and nodded. "Lead the way."

* * *

The bunker had been designed to hold five hundred of the Capitol's most important citizens in the event of a nuclear attack from 13. Even when they'd signed the secret treaty to go underground, the president had remained where he was; placing too much faith in the districts was what had torn Panem apart in the first place. As time continued with no sign of betrayal from 13, and with the tide of the war turning in their favour, many had left the bunker to rejoin their families and resume their duties. Only the president had remained, as well as his personal guards and a small team of Communications officers who kept him in touch with the rest of the country.

Up until now, that had only entailed giving preplanned speeches to citizens of the Capitol and captured districts. Though his first strategy had been diplomacy, the rebel leaders had refused to speak with him. Even after the Capitol began retaking their land, one district at a time, their pride had been too great to grant him an audience.

Now the general of 11's forces was watching him with a carefully constructed expression of neutrality as he took a seat in front of the computer monitor.

"General Arvense."

"Mister Nubila."

He focused on lighting a new cigar, bowing his head so she wouldn't see the clench of his jaw. " _President_ Nubila."

"You're no president of mine."

He wasn't the only one struggling to control himself. Already there was a note of rage seeping into her tone. She tried to remain aloof, using the fan in her hands to act casual just as he used his cigar, but he could see the hatred in her eyes, no matter how she attempted to hide it.

Hatred—and fear.

He remained composed, expression indifferent as he raised the cigar to his lips. Inwardly, his heart was racing, and his head was spinning. The pain from the burn had subsided; now he felt only a prickle on his left arm, right around the spot where the last intact district seal had been inked into his skin.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?"

"You wanted to talk. Let's talk."

The sheer ridiculousness of the statement almost made him want to laugh. "What is there left to talk about?"

"I heard about what happened in Four. You may be pulling the media's strings, but I know it was bloody on both sides. I'd hope, seeing as you call yourself a leader, you'd want to avoid more unnecessary deaths."

He couldn't stop himself from asking his next question. "Are you prepared to surrender?"

11's leader frowned; such bluntness was unwelcome in politics. But then, this wasn't politics: this was a conversation between a beaten shell of a rebel and the man who had broken her. Arvense might paint a pretty picture, clad in a deep purple general's suit, her nose thrust in the air overtop the fan she carried, but the truth was, this wasn't a conversation. It was a plead for mercy.

"What I am prepared to do," Arvense began, closing her fan with a snap, "is negotiate a set of terms under which the armies of _both_ parties will lay down their weapons and—"

"No." Damn protocol, and damn subtleties. He was done; he wanted this war to be done.

"No?" Arvense echoed. "And here I thought Panem's _president_ actually gave a damn about his people."

"Oh, I do. I give a damn about the people _you_ took arms against. I give a damn about the people you, and Nine, and Ten, and Four left to starve. Those are my people."

"We're all part of the same country."

"A pity you didn't realise that six years ago."

Her eyes narrowed to a glare. The mask had come off now, and the talons were unsheathed. "The conditions of living in the districts were deplorable. They still _are_ deplorable, and it is your responsibility to do something about it. I'm merely suggesting—"

"Yes, you are 'merely suggesting.' Because that's all you can do." He leaned forward, cigar forgotten in his hand. "How many bombs do you think we have left from the devastation of Thirteen?"

"We are the centre of Panem's food production. You'd never—"

"How many sectors in your district have already been reclaimed by the Capitol? How many Peacekeepers wait outside your poorly-defended borders now? How many of your soldiers are still fit to fight after we released the _Vespula mutationis_? Or the, ah, what was that colloquialism you used? Ah, yes, the 'tracker jackers.' How quaint."

He could almost feel the heat of Arvense's anger through the screen. Genetic engineering had been a masterstroke by Capitol scientists, and, aside from a few hiccups, had served well in helping turn the tide of the war in their favour. In particular, the "tracker jackers" had succeeded in crippling and killing hundreds of Eleven's people, including Arvense's now deceased daughter.

The rebel leader's knuckles were tightening around the end of her fan. "Are you trying to threaten me, Mister Nubila?"

"No, Miss Arvense. A threat implies a warning, an act I mean to intimidate you with, but by no means plan to enact. I can assure you, that is not the course of action I intend to take."

"Mister Nubila—"

"Miss Arvense. War isn't a game you can quit when you're in fear of losing. If you hurt people, if you cause suffering, then you'd better be prepared to win. Otherwise, there will be consequences." He leaned back in his chair, puffing on his cigar. "And you have caused a _great_ deal of suffering."

The words hung in the air as neither he nor Arvense spoke. Her chin was thrust forward, and her fingers looked set to snap her fan in two, but there was sweat on her brow and despair in her eyes. She'd lost, and she knew it.

He left the screen on, content to keep the connection going as Arvense struggled to clear her throat. Finally, she spoke again.

"When can I expect the attack?"

"Within the hour."

"If my people surrender—"

"They may still die. They've caused a lot of harm. Many of our soldiers have friends and family that would have been alive were it not for them."

"The reverse is true as well."

"Perhaps. But _we_ didn't start the war. We're simply here to finish it."

Arvense's eyes dropped from the camera to the desk before her. She placed her fan on its surface, just out of his field of vision. Her fingers continued to linger on it.

"Will I be gunned down as well?"

"Would you have had me shot, had you won?"

"No." Arvense met his eyes once more; her fear was all but gone, replaced by an all-consuming rage. "I'd have made you wish I did."

"I thought as much. So I shall see you soon, in person, I suppose."

"Fuck you."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Fuck. _You_."

Arvense raised her hands from the desk. The fan was no longer in her grasp. Something else was.

The gunshot rang out, sharp and loud over the computer speakers. Flecks of red dotted the camera, marring his view. He couldn't clean them away, but he could see just enough to watch Arvense slump out of sight, revealing the blood-splattered wall behind her.

A door opened behind him, slower and quieter than earlier. The same woman from before emerged from the control room, where she'd no doubt been monitoring the call. Standard procedure to make the sure all went well, though she only saw the video; listening in on the president was strictly forbidden. Arvense, however, had not needed sound to make her last point clear.

The woman swallowed. Her cheeks were no longer flushed from exertion. Now, she looked a bit pale. "Sir . . .?"

"Get the commanding officer of the Eleven unit on line one," he said, barely sparing her a glance. His eyes were focused on the computer's bloody scene. "Tell him Rosa Arvense is dead. His orders are to start the last invasion."

"Yes, sir."

He heard her footsteps retreat. She'd started to close the door when he added, "And tell him to take as many rebels alive as he can."

The door stopped moving. There was a deep intake of breath, then came another, squeakier, "Yes, sir."

He kept watch on the screen as the door was eased shut. Nothing moved on Arvense's side of the world; no one had come to investigate the gunshot. It was just him, him and what remained of her. She'd been a brilliant opponent, wearing him down for six years, nearly beating him before the rebels suffered the loss of 13. Arvense had never been a fighter herself, but she'd had a mind for war that had rivalled his own.

Now that mind was in pieces, shreds of it stuck in the blood seeping down the wall behind the screen.

Once again, he rolled up his sleeves. The cigar seared his left arm, making him clench his fist and grit his teeth as he held it there for longer than ever before. Painful, yes—still, surely not as painful as Arvense's cleansing had been.

When the deed was done, he stretched out his arms, bathing them in the glow of the computer screen as he took in the sight.

Where once there had been fourteen intricate seals, each carefully inked in their own respective colours, now there was a line of scars and burns. Only one remained intact, that which he'd had etched into the skin on the back of his right hand: a bird of prey, its wings outstretched, a cluster of arrows clutched in its talons, a capital "C" emblazoned in the medallion beneath it.

He smiled then, truly smiled, and placed his cigar in the ashtray by the monitor. There was no need for it anymore. The world had finally been made right.

* * *

 _World on fire with a smoking sun  
Stops everything and everyone  
Brace yourself for all will pay  
Help is on the way_

* * *

 _Note: Thank you for reading. This began as a personal project, but I've recently become enamoured with SYOTs, and have decided to incorporate the format into this story. Considering this is the origin of the Hunger Games, however, it will be a bit different than other SYOTs. As I post more chapters, these differences will become clearer, and I hope I've adequately explained things on my profile as well. If you have any further questions, please let me know. This is a learning process for me, and it may be slow going at first, but I aim to try and update every Monday and Friday, if my schedule permits it. Thank you again for taking a chance of this story, and if you are interested in submitting, you can find more information on my profile._


	2. Soldier in the Dark

_I heard a whisper on my shoulder  
_ _Pretending life is worth the fight  
O can you hear the song of thunder  
When fear strangles a soldier's pride  
And on the surface of the waters  
Will dance reflections of the fire in the night_

* * *

A humming electric fence topped with a flourish of barbed wire towered above the dirt road as an armoured jeep drove up. The gates that barred the way stood even taller; here, the wire had been foregone to make way for chunks of twisted metal that rose like spires towards the clouds. Rumour was these were souvenirs, taken from the wreckage of rebel trains and aircrafts the commander had singlehandedly taken down. There were those who dismissed this as trite gossip and even went so far as to claim the commander herself had invented the story, but that did nothing to lessen the fence's ominous look.

The foreboding atmosphere was weakened, however, by the ease with which the gates swung open to admit the approaching jeep. Passcodes, thumbprint checks, retinal scans—standard protocol had been completely abandoned. Instead, the security of the entire camp had fallen on the shoulders of one bored guard who was content with a single glance over the rails of his watchtower to make sure the jeep's plates were ones he recognised. He couldn't even see through the tinted windshield, and yet he opened the gates, banking on the gamble that no one had overpowered the commander and stolen her car.

Behind the jeep's glass, fingers tightened on the steering wheel and the striking green eyes of Commander Caecilia Macer narrowed. For it was indeed the camp's leader who drove her own jeep—still, that was no excuse for the sloppy security check. She would have gotten out of her car and lectured the offending guard herself, had she not understand what had led to the mistake.

But she did, and for this reason, she drove on through the gates without pause. The guard, she knew, was unsure of his duties, and tired. How could she find fault in that, when she felt just the same?

It had been three weeks since 11, the final district, had surrendered. Three weeks since the official announcement: Panem's war was done.

Yet here she still was.

The camp was silent and eerily barren as she drove through it. Normally the grounds would be full of guards on patrol and prisoners hard at work. On the odd day no one was about, that usually meant they were gathered at the centre of the camp, where some particularly troublesome rebel was being made an example of. Today, this square too was empty; not a speck of fresh blood decorated the whipping post, and the only bodies hanging from the gibbet had long since decayed past recognition.

Caecilia watched as a slight breeze sent one bloating corpse drifting into another. A cluster of maggots tumbled to the ground at the moment of contact. Her nose wrinkled; she kept her eyes focused firmly on the road as she continued on.

No doubt the living prisoners were still locked away in their cells. The guards would have likewise isolated themselves inside the barracks. Anxiety blanketed the camp, clotting the air until it felt impossible to take a breath. Caecilia's chest was already tightening as she pulled up to a squat, grey building, unassuming in appearance but vital for operations. This was Dark River Camp's Main Office—and the home of its commander.

Caecilia didn't even have time to turn the engine off before the door to the base flew open. Well, at least someone was on high alert.

"Commander Macer!"

The man striding towards her was tall and well-built, with brown hair cropped closely to his skull. His arms were straight, his pacing even, his back as rigid as a post; in short, Ludovic Silens was everything a Capitol lieutenant should aspire to be. Yet as he approached, Caecilia noticed his uniform was wrinkled, and his badges hadn't seen polish in days. That was even more telling than the abandoned camp. Something was terribly amiss.

"I trust you had a good trip, ma'am," Ludovic said, coming to a stop with his heels knocking together. He saluted as Caecilia climbed out of the jeep.

She returned the gesture wearily. "In all honestly, Lieutenant, it was just about the most uneventful drive I've had in six years."

"So it was good, then?"

"Not at all. I was so tense I thought I'd snap the wheel in two."

Ludovic couldn't seem to decide whether or not this was a joke at which he should laugh. Caecilia wasn't sure herself.

"So." Ludovic fell into step beside her as she began her march towards the base's doors. "If I may ask, ma'am, the meeting, did it . . . go well?"

Caecilia nearly sighed. Of course that was what he wanted to know; that was what the whole damn battalion wanted to know. If only she didn't lack a satisfactory answer.

"Spread the word," she said as they opened the front doors and entered a lobby as desolate as the rest of the camp. "I'm giving a debriefing in an hour, and I want all personnel present."

"An hour, ma'am?"

"I've had a long day of driving, Lieutenant. I'd like some coffee and a hot meal. Maybe a shower. And some time with my daughter."

"Ah. Yes, of course."

It was hard to miss the note of envy in Ludovic's tone. Caecilia couldn't blame him; the man had three still-living children of his own, and he was impossibly far from them, though in bond the Silenses were closer than Caecilia could ever be with her daughter. In Panem, cruel irony was never in short supply.

"I'll tell Cocus to brew a new pot, then," Ludovic said, his back already turned to Caecilia as he headed for the kitchen. "He's been strict with the rations, but I'm sure he'll manage something."

"Thank you," Caecilia called, but Ludovic was already gone, heading down a hall and turning the corner without a word of goodbye. He hadn't even saluted, or awaited any sort of dismissal from his commanding officer.

Caecilia sighed. Yes, something was amiss in Dark River indeed—something her news would far from fix. If Ludovic was already giving her the cold shoulder, and he the most disciplined of her crew, then . . . Capitol save her, she might just have a mutiny on her hands.

All the more reason to meet with her daughter. She had to be prepared for what would soon come to pass.

If Tacita could be prepared at all.

Caecilia turned on her heel, striding swiftly towards a hall opposite the one Ludovic had taken. Though her first thought was to chase after him and ask for her daughter's whereabouts, deep down she realised that was pointless. She already knew where Tacita would be; she just wished for once she'd be wrong.

* * *

From an aerial perspective, Dark River Camp was hardly worth noticing beyond its intimidating border fence. It held none of the usual Capitol pomp and splendour; in fact, any backwater district homestead could have put it to shame. The roads were unpaved and filled with ruts, while the buildings were all identical slabs of roughly-shaped concrete, sparsely decorated by a few moth-eaten Capitol flags. Beyond these glorified tombs lay rows upon rows of crude, tin houses—if the word "houses" even qualified. Most were one room and barely more than a hundred square feet. Dark River had long ago surpassed its capacity for prisoners, and they'd been forced to come up with a quick solution to rectify this.

Fortunately, the soldiers did not had to suffer such degradation in their living conditions, or Commander Macer would have feared mutiny long before this day. Their quarters were nothing special, but they were solid, furnished, and, most importantly, safely underground. After news of 13's threatened nuclear attack had spread, no one within five hundred miles of the Capitol wanted to sleep on the surface. If their military had been just a bit slower in reacting to the threat . . .

Caecilia forced the thought out of her mind as she marched down the first door-lined corridor of the barracks. The important thing was, they hadn't been. 13 was gone, wiped off the map, a grim example of the future that had cowed the rest of the districts within the span of six months. Many of the Capitol had wanted the bombings to continue—what if the punishment wasn't enough to subdue them, and was there _really_ a need for an entire district devoted to coal?—but President Nubila, wise and glorious, had sought another means of retribution. The most renowned prisons in the Capitol were now brimming with captured rebels just waiting to be made into examples.

 _Too many examples_ , Caecilia couldn't help but think. How could their little camp hope to be noticed when the most important prisoner they held was the third cousin of the 5 mayor's secretary?

No, now was not the time to worry about that. Commander Macer had to go, for a short while. It was time for Caecilia to return to a role she'd long neglected: Mother.

The idea was about as inviting as the doors she passed. Imposing metal slabs lined by crisscrossing beams and large bolts, they looked more like blast doors than the entrance to someone's quarters. The only thing that set each one apart was its accompanying placard that listed the four people who could be found inside.

Perhaps the soldiers' homes weren't so above the prisoners' after all. Even Caecilia had to share her small space, though she only had one roommate in place of three.

The sole placard to hold two names instead of four was at the end of the hall she'd just turned down. Her strides slowed as she neared it, to the point where it would seem she was hesitating. She wasn't, of course. What kind of military commander hesitated in performing her duties?

The question _what kind of mother?_ never crossed her mind as she stood outside the door, staring at the placard on its right.

 _C. Macer_

 _T. Macer_

No sound could be heard beyond the walls. Perhaps Caecilia had actually been wrong to come here. The war was over now, after all; surely Tacita had finally managed to leave her room of her own—

Screams from inside the room. Shattering glass. A gunshot.

And dramatic music. Damn it.

Caecilia flung open the door and marched inside, jaw set and eyes blazing. Even for the commander's quarters, the room was not large: two beds lined opposite walls, two desks at their respective feet, but none of the furniture was currently occupied. Instead, the room's sole occupant sat curled up on the floor. She hadn't even turned the ceiling fluorescents on; only a dim glow shone from the far end of the room, emitted by a military-grade tablet. It made the person who held it look pale, sickly—dead.

Caecilia flicked on the room's lights, and the shadows disappeared. The room's other occupant blinked. Music continued to play through the tablet.

"Turn that off," Caecilia said stiffly.

The horror movie that played on the screen was paused, and finally, eyes looked up to meet hers. Caecilia took in her daughter's face for the first time in weeks and was more than disappointed at the sight.

Tacita had her mother's eyes, though the green in hers was so bright it was almost ethereal. Most likely it was the pallor of her skin that brought out such intensity in the colour, or it could have been the dark bags beneath them that made her eyes seem more lifelike. Indeed, eyes were just about the only thing of life Tacita had. Her cheeks were hollow even after months of enjoying the base's rations, and by the way her jumpsuit clung to her, it was clear the rest of her body looked no better. She'd shrunk more than grown during the war, appearing closer to twelve than she did to eighteen. Add to that her eyes and lifeless, white-blonde hair that clung to her head in thin, stringy patches, and she looked more like a ghost than the one terrorising the Capitol actors on her tablet.

Caecilia's eyes narrowed at the screen in her daughter's frail hands. "That's supposed to be for schoolwork."

When Tacita spoke, it reminded Caecilia of the listless wind that had blown across the empty camp. "I'm doing my schoolwork."

" _Tacita._ "

Her daughter blinked slowly, like she couldn't understand the tone behind the words. Caecilia had to keep herself from sighing. She'd thought the war ending would have moved her daughter past this behaviour, but she seemed just as bad, if not worse, than before.

"This is for school," Tacita said after a moment. "You can ask Professor Res if you'd like."

Caecilia had recruited her daughter's stern, no-nonsense tutor herself, and she highly doubted he'd include horror movies as a part of his curriculum. "What class is it for?"

"History of Panem _."_

"Why are you studying films?"

"He wants me to write an essay on what shaped the Capitol into the city it is today. My focus is on media productions."

Caecilia tried to be patient with her daughter, she really did, but in that moment, it took all the discipline of a commander to keep her from grabbing the tablet and throwing it across the room. "The _media_? That's what you've chosen, after witnessing a war that has irreparably changed the country?"

Tacita flinched, and Caecilia knew the argument was lost.

"How were the talks? Do you know when we can go home?"

Yes, there was the subject change she had been expecting.

Caecilia frowned down at her daughter, who was suddenly refusing to meet her eye. Every time the war was so much as mentioned, Tacita would veer the conversation off-course, and that would be that. Any attempt to force the topic on her would result in anger, screaming, throwing things, then hyperventilating, panicking, and passing out. The camp's psychiatrist had told Caecilia this was all natural for someone who had lived through trauma, and in the beginning, she'd believed him and Tacita both, but now it had been nearly a year since her daughter had been shipped to the bunker, and it was beginning to feel like an excuse to continue being babied. Many of the soldiers at Dark River had seen horrific things in their times during the war, Caecilia included, and none of them had to be tiptoed around so ridiculously carefully like Tacita. Some of them were her age, even.

Caecilia's mind was made before she'd even fully realised it. Tacita's coddling had gone on for far too long, and the girl had allowed herself to slip even further now that the war was done. That was too dangerous a mindset to be had when their battle was only just beginning.

A quiet whimper escaped Tacita's lips when Caecilia bent over and yanked the tablet out of her grasp. Her daughter had started out using movies as a crutch to distract her mind, and had ended up trying to live permanently behind the screen. Caecilia couldn't let that continue any longer.

"There will be a meeting about the talks in forty-five minutes." Her voice had dropped low and became louder, the tone she used when giving orders. Tacita's mother was gone; Commander Macer was back. "You're to report to the debriefing room along with everyone else."

Tacita's eyes flitted from her stolen tablet to her mother's face. "But I'm not a soldier."

"No, and that's my fault for not making your training mandatory. Did you keep up your lessons with Ludovic at all while I was gone?"

". . . He was busy."

"Have you even left your room once?"

"Yes. For meals and—

"Meals? _Meals_ hardly count. Capitol save you, Tacita, you can't spend your whole life locked up in here watching this trash!"

She did throw the tablet then—safely onto a bed, but it was thrown nonetheless. Tacita tensed as it skidded across the mattress.

"I don't see why I need training." Her words were slow and strained in the way they got right before she started to cry. "We're going home soon, aren't we?"

Caecilia, about to answer, stopped short. She couldn't deal with her daughter going over the edge, not when she had a debriefing from hell to plan. Night after night she'd spent trying to calm Tacita's tantrums, and she just couldn't do it anymore.

"Mother," came the call as Caecilia turned on her heel and headed for the door. "Mother, we're going home, aren't we? Aren't we?"

"Debriefing room, Tacita. Forty-five minutes."

"You can't make me a soldier!"

The scream caught Caecilia off-guard. She turned to see her daughter on her feet, the reclaimed tablet hugged close to her chest. Her eyes were blazing with more fire than Caecilia had seen in a long time.

"I won't go," Tacita said vehemently, glaring at her mother.

"I'm ordering you to do so."

"I'm only _eighteen_. I can't be a soldier. So you don't get to order me around, _Commander._ "

"I am your mother."

"No, you're not. I only ever had a father, and unfortunately _he_ died instead of _you_!"

Caecilia's jaw set into a dangerous scowl, but inside her chest, her heart twisted painfully at the mention of Viramare. Then the sorrow passed, replaced by cold fury. So that was how it was, was it? Tacita required everyone to tread on eggshells around her, but when it came time for her to broach subjects that hurt others, she was completely in the right to do so. It was only unfair when _she_ was the victim.

That was enough. Caecilia could see now the spoiled, sheltered daughter she had raised, and it had to be corrected instantly. No more tiptoeing, not anymore.

"And Magna died instead of you," Caecilia snapped, letting a year's worth of pent-up anger take hold. "And _she_ was prepared to enlist at eighteen."

Tacita's mouth snapped shut, cutting off her next attack. Caecilia stopped as well, temper dissipating just enough for her to realise she may have crossed a line. Her daughter wouldn't look at her anymore, tablet held so tight to her chest it was a wonder she could breathe. From what little Caecilia could see of her expression, she knew Tacita was wearing that same pale, emotionless look she got whenever her sister was mentioned.

A sick pit of guilt formed in Caecilia's stomach, though it was almost immediately filled by another hot wave of anger. Magna had been her daughter just as much as she'd been Tacita's sister, but Caecilia hadn't taken a year off to grieve. That didn't mean she was cold. Viramare and Magna were always in her thoughts. She might not have shed a tear for them, but she cared. Really, she did. Tacita was just young, just overreacting.

The anger and guilt was gone, replaced by a hollow emptiness that chilled Caecilia to her core. She conjured up Viramare's face, remembering every detail from the line of his jaw to the wrinkles by his eyes, but instead of aching, her heart seemed to numb.

Caecilia shook her head. Pivoting on her heel, she left her daughter behind as she strode towards the door. Viramare would have told her to comfort the girl, but she could do so no more.

Tacita may have still been young, but the war had changed Panem. In a world where orphans had to sustain themselves on the streets, where boys or girls as young as two could be put to work in factories, no one had the luxury of being a child anymore.

"Debriefing pit. Forty minutes," she said, pausing by the doorway to await a response. She should have expected the silence she got instead.

Caecilia thought about turning back. Thought hard, and then thought better of it. This small amount of speaking alone had exhausted the two of them; irritated fatigue hung thick in the air. So she left it all behind, walked out of her room, and closed the door with a resounding sense of finality behind her.

* * *

 _And in the arms of endless anger  
Will end the story of a soldier in the dark_

* * *

 _Note: Thank you for your kind words on the last chapter. It served as a sort of prologue; with this chapter, we're meeting characters who will be playing much larger roles in the story. If you're wondering how your tributes will fit into this, don't worry, it should become clearer as more chapters are posted. I'm definitely still accepting submissions as well, so if you're interested in creating a tribute, check out my profile for all the details._


	3. Secrets Inside

_I sat alone, in bed 'til the morning_  
 _I'm crying, "They're coming for me."_  
 _And I tried to hold these secrets inside me_  
 _My mind's like a deadly disease_

* * *

The moment her mother left the room, Tacita ran for her bed. The tablet was forgotten in her arms as she plunged head-first onto her mattress, face hitting the pillow just before she started to scream.

It wasn't much of a scream—not anymore. More of a moan, a loud, held note she produced to fill her mind with white noise and keep her thoughts from straying into darker territory.

 _Mother. Father. Magna._

"HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM" came the noise Tacita wailed into her pillow. Her head sunk further into it until she could hardly breathe. Across her chest, her arms tightened until she was sure either her ribs or her tablet would crack.

Her tablet. She couldn't break that. She was right in the middle of _Dead Mines Tell No Tales_ , a terrible old horror movie that had only succeeded in scaring producers out of ever backing its director again. Virgil Vates had been trained for years at the illustrious Capitol Arts Collegiate, and all he had to show for it was a terrible cast of actors speaking in incomprehensible 12 accents and screaming bloody murder as they ran down the same mine tunnel set for two and a half hours. Hadn't Tacita been laughing earlier, revelling in the superiority she felt as she watched? Hadn't she just been in the midst of imagining how she would do better?

Her mind jumped to every random fact she knew about Virgil Vates's film, and when that failed her, she switched to other movies like it, never losing stride, never allowing herself a moment's pause. _Alone Amongst the Trees_ had inspired so many directors to settle for subpar sets, because the film had been shot on location in the forests of 7 and three background actors had died getting mauled by a bear. _Strange and Stranger Love_ was a romantic comedy that had somehow topped the Capitol's highest-grossing action film with its character body count. _The Unbreakening_ surpassed expectations built around its terrible title to become a surprisingly touching sports film.

On and on she went, each piece of trivia growing less macabre as Tacita left her mother's conversation about war and death behind. Her muscles relaxed, and her breathing grew calm. Another minute passed before she was fully aware that she no longer made a sound.

Slowly, she raised herself up from the mattress, keeping her eyes closed as though the sight of the prison-like bedroom was the only thing keeping her there. If she refused to look, then she could pretend she was back in her old room, spread out across her queen-size bed, surrounded by purple drapes and castle wallpaper. Her mother had hated it, adamant that it was a waste and she'd grow out of it within the year, but her father . . .

Was not a part of her life anymore.

Tacita took a deep breath, mechanically wiping her damp cheeks. No further tears formed as her blank eyes opened; she had her control back, thank the Capitol. Screaming and tantrums felt good in the moment, but left her sick in the aftermath. She hated the thought that her mother could dictate her mood with a single offhand comment. Caecilia Macer didn't deserve that kind of power.

Anger fluttered in her chest like a bird in a cage, but it was more easy to calm this time. Dr. Meden had told her to try clearing her mind, but the real secret to peace lay in turning the tap on her temper from hot to cold. Hot anger burned her skin and seared her mind until there was nothing left. Cold anger kept her frozen and still while her thoughts grew like icicles with deadly sharp tips.

But Dr. Meden had said that was bad, and Tacita was beginning to worry the next time she arrived at one of her sessions showing signs of "trouble," he'd tell her mother. So she forced the thoughts away, her mind and gaze instead turning automatically to the tablet in her hands. The screen was still paused at the climax of _Dead Mines Tell No Tales,_ when all the ghostly miners appeared to attack the remaining idiot teenagers from 12. B-list actors were staring back up at Tacita, faces fixed in parodies of fear.

 _Better effects_. That had been Tacita's line of thinking before her mother had so rudely barged in. The ghosts onscreen looked like monsters a toddler had scribbled on its bedroom walls. _And better costumes,_ she continued, getting back into the rhythm of her critique as her eyes scanned the screen. Yes, the blood-soaked rags the teenagers wore had been slashed far too artfully, and the coal stains across their cheeks swirled like abstract tattoos. No Twelve looked like that in real life, to Tacita's knowledge. Virgil Vates should have done his research.

 _And hired better actors._ Heck, maybe even hired Twelves to be his actors. They couldn't be worse than these Capitol slapsticks, and they, ugly 'Tricts that they were, wouldn't be afraid of twisting their faces in true horror.

And if they couldn't do that, then Tacita would hire a little incentive for them to do so. The labour laws for 'Tricts had been vague before the war, and she bet they were all but nonexistent now. You could do whatever you wanted to them. So why not make them _really_ afraid? Ghosts weren't real, sure, but you could take a page from _Alone Amongst the Trees_ and get a very real bear, or . . .

She cut her own thoughts off once the grisly mental images clouded her vision. Dr. Meden wouldn't be happy about that.

But then, what did he know? He didn't understand her; he couldn't possibly know what would make her feel better. Neither would her absolute failure of a mother, for obvious reasons. No, the only people who would understand Tacita were far, far away, where she had no hope of reaching them.

Her eyes darted furtively towards the bedroom door before she returned to the film's menu and selected the bonus interview of Virgil Vates to play. Commander Macer, so keen on making her sole remaining daughter into another piece of cannon fodder, would be even more enraged to find her watching this sort of content, but it was worth the risk. Even if Vates was a talentless oaf with all the artistic eye of a dirt-eating mole, he had still attended the Capitol Arts Collegiate, and to hear him speak of it was an inspirational melody in Tacita's otherwise scream-filled life.

"I owe this film and everything I am to the CAC. When I had my interview, I was a young idiot with nothing to his name but a bunch of crazy ideas, but they took me in, and they molded me into something I could never have dreamed of. The professors aren't just there to teach, they're there to make your dreams come true. Sounds cheesy, but that honestly exactly what they do. Any creative endeavour they support. No matter how crazy."

The small voice floated up from the laptop, and Tacita felt the ever-present weight on her chest lessen as Vates went on describing his cherished alma mater. The CAC . . . it had always been her dream to attend, ever since she'd learned the magic of movies was something she could harness. She'd received her first camera when she was eight, and had started making her own films exactly one week later. The war had disrupted her plans for the future, of course, but the CAC was still around, still taking students because "art will always endure," as their motto went. _That_ was where Tacita should be. _That_ was what eighteen-year-olds were supposed to do: seek higher education. Not train to become the military's tools, as her mother and sister had been convinced.

 _Magna._

Fingers clenched the sides of the tablet so tight it was libel to snap. Tacita forced herself to relax her grip, channeling her tension into her feet as she beat them against the mattress. The hard, thin mattress of Dark River Camp. Yes, yes, she was here, not back in the heart of the Capitol where it had all gone so wrong.

Her mother didn't understand. No one did. They only knew the lie they had made up out of nothing to explain the circumstances she wouldn't speak about. Ironic, that "Tacita" meant "mute," and for a month after arriving in the bunker, she was just that. So her mother had filled her silence with untrue stories, because Magna and her father had to be just two more casualties of the war, just another reason for her to fight against the districts. She spoke with such conviction that when Tacita had finally begun to start talking again, she hadn't been able to find the words to tell the truth. Hell, she'd almost believed her mother's version of the events.

Almost.

She flinched as a memory surfaced, just for a moment, like a fish caught on a hook she was unwittingly reeling in. It swam up and sent a ripple through her mind, giving her the barest ghost of old sensations. Gnawing hunger. The scent of blood. Raw, feral screams.

Suddenly, the sound was drowned out by loud, dramatic violins screeching their way through a frightening tune. Tacita looked down to find the screen filled by screaming Capitol actors once more. She'd switched back to Vates's film without realising.

Onscreen, one of the ghosts flew at a blonde girl who screeched like a bat. Though they had previously been incorporeal all throughout the film, somehow this ghost had teeth that worked enough to bite deep into the girl's unprotected neck. Blood came spraying out of the newly-formed wound so vigorously it knocked another teenager in its path clean off his feet.

The ridiculousness of it all chased away the genuine terror of her memories. She even almost smiled when the token jock was mauled to death. For a Twelve, he'd been irritatingly obnoxious, and it was good to see him go.

 _Now imagine how you'd feel if this was real._

Her finger was on the screen, exiting the film before she could blink. No, Dr. Meden had told her thoughts like that were _bad_. "Report to me immediately if they grow more frequent," he'd said.

She took a deep breath, trying to clear her head. More trouble was the last thing she needed, especially if the doctor saw fit to mention his analysis to her mother. Commander Macer yelled enough as was.

And would be yelling more soon, if the tablet's clock was anything to go by. Tacita's eyes jumped to the bottom of the screen, unable to believe it. Had she been lost in her own world for so long? The debriefing was set to start in ten minutes.

She was so tempted to skip it. But she knew her mother, and, more importantly, she knew Commander Macer. If Tacita wasn't present, the military leader wouldn't hesitate to drag her out of her room in front of the bunker's entire population. She'd never be able to live that down.

Besides, staying here meant being alone with her thoughts, and that was never a good thing. Usually it was nothing a crappy TV show couldn't drown out, but every so often she had a day where her mind refused to go anywhere except the dark places Dr. Meden had forbidden. She still didn't like him much, and was adamant he didn't understand her, but still, the look he gave her when she'd finally described one of her fantasies to him . . . it had made her afraid. Of herself.

She'd always been a strange, solitary girl. Perhaps it was best not to push her peculiarity too far. She'd hardly left the room while her mother had been gone; that was nearly three weeks without seeing the other soldiers around the base. Surely they couldn't be as loud and intimidating as she remembered.

Maybe . . . Maybe the debriefing would be good for her.

* * *

"Good afternoon, everyone."

"Good afternoon, Commander."

"—mander."

In a lonely seat at the back of the room, Tacita curled further in on herself. The simplest of greetings, and she'd failed to speak the words along with the other soldiers, instead coming in high-pitched and late enough that hers was the only voice to be heard when everyone finished. She kept her head ducked down lest anyone look her way; if they did, she swore she'd die.

Three weeks, apparently, had not exaggerated the intimidating aura of the other soldiers. If anything, her time alone had made her forget just how much she hated being surrounded by people.

Up at the front of the room, her mother waved a hand, and the crowd of soldiers before Tacita returned to their seats—shoot, she was supposed to stand too, wasn't she? Was it too late? It was too late—as their commander cleared her throat.

"As most of you know, I left a few days ago to meet with General Epidius to discuss outlying camps like ours. I expected to be gone for a while longer, but the general is a very busy man, and our business was cut short." Her mother hesitated for a fraction of a second. "Unfortunately, this also means I was unable to get a sufficiently clear answer to my questions."

Protocol, followed so carefully until this point, was disregarded entirely as actual murmurs broke out in the crowd. Three years ago, none of these soldiers would have dared interrupt their commander, yet now they were all but advertising their dissent.

A small part of Tacita not cringing at the sound of conversation was maliciously wondering if Commander Macer was beginning to sweat.

"That does not mean that we have no path forward," her mother continued, ignoring the whispers as best she could. "But at the moment, officials are more concerned with the political prisoners held back in the Capitol. Negotiations with the districts are currently underway, and once those wrap up, I have been assured Dark River is next in line to be sorted out."

"Begging your pardon, ma'am, but what exactly does that mean?"

Eyebrows rose and heads turned as all looked towards the source of the disturbance. A man in the third row was on his feet, his head of shockingly red curls announcing him as Private Miles Juvenis, one of her mother's favourite examples of "eighteen-year-olds who are making their country proud." Tacita had never spoken to him, though she'd been lectured enough about the shining example he was setting to hate him on sight. Now, however, she believed she was starting to appreciate the young man making her mother's lip curl.

"I mean, negotiations with the districts?" Miles continued, unaware or uncaring of his commander's obvious displeasure at his words. "Pardon my language, but why the fuck are we negotiating with them? We _beat_ them. Why can't we just kill them and be done with it?"

"Private Juvenis, you seem to be under the false impression that you are a politician, when in fact you are a soldier who is not to speak out of turn or address his superior in such an informal manner ever again."

Her words cut the air like a knife of ice, but Miles made no sound of apology—nor did he retake his seat. Commander Macer looked to Miles's left, where Ludovic Silens sat, shoulders back and spine ramrod straight. Besides being one of the camp's foremost lieutenants, he was also unofficially in charge of the younger privates who needed a bit more guidance than most. Tacita knew he wasn't above bellowing or occasionally beating new recruits should they show the slightest hint of insubordination. Today, however, he remained absolutely silent.

While this sight seemed to unsettle even her unshakable mother, Miles gathered courage from it. Tacita couldn't see his face, but she watched his head tilt up as he turned back to face his commander once more.

"I don't mean to offend, Commander, but I would like to piece this puzzle together. Why must we show the districts so much as a shred of mercy?"

"I don't pretend to know the inner workings of our great president's mind, Private Juvenis, but I believe it has something to do with building a lasting peace instead of starting another war." Her mother's eyes hardened. "Are you saying you disagree with his decree?"

Even from the back row, Tacita swore she could hear Miles inhale sharply. The expressions around the room were no longer supportive of his interruptions; there was only concern and dismissal, heads turned away as though they might catch dissension just by staring. No one said anything, but there was one word Tacita was sure was running through everyone's heads.

 _Rebel._

It was a label no Capitol loyalist in their right mind would ever want to be associated with. Deserters alone were punished by a slow and painful death. Those who _actively_ worked against the Capitol . . . well, there were only stories that would turn even the strongest soldier's stomach.

At Miles's side, Ludovic said nothing, but Tacita heard the click of his heel as he rapped it forcefully against the ground. Miles dropped into his seat as though it were a gunshot. "No, ma'am. Forgive me, I'd never . . . no. Forgive me. Long live the Capitol. Long live the president. Long live Panem. _Ut patriae bene servimus_ _._ "

" _Quia pascit nos panem_ ," the crowd of soldiers murmured in response. Tacita too found herself mouthing the adage—an old reflex school had drilled into her head before she could pronounce half the words. It had then taken years before she finally understood what they meant.

 _May we serve our country well for she feeds us with her bread._

Then again, she hadn't been doing a good job of that since the war began, though Tacita supposed that was less of Panem's fault and more of the districts', who were meant to fulfill such roles. Indeed, a few of their prisoners from District 9 had once taken to chanting a slightly different version. _May we treat the districts right for they feed us with their bread._

The soldiers of Dark River had so kindly reminded them of the correct words by carving them across the chests of a select few they strung up in the camp square. The others took the hint and the small act of defiance was never heard again.

Perhaps Miles was currently fearing a similar sort of punishment. Tacita could see his mind racing like a panicked hamster on a wheel, going over the same horrific situations again and again. She almost wanted to laugh; so much for her mother's example of a fearless eighteen-year-old.

However, their commander didn't look disappointed as she stared down at Miles. In fact, if Tacita didn't know better, she'd say her mother looked . . . sympathetic. Which was impossible, unless it was true, in which case, it was worse. Tacita had never received so much as an ounce of compassion from her mother in all her life.

Yet here she was, eyes tender as she looked over Miles. "We're all on edge. I understand. Times have been tough, and it's logical that with the war over, thoughts would turn to home. Make no mistake, I understand," she repeated into the microphone, addressing the crowd as a whole once more. "But we signed up to serve our country, and we swore we wouldn't rest until we were no longer needed. The fighting is done, soldiers, but it has left a mess across Panem that we must help to clean up.

"General Epidius has been appointed to the role of sorting out the business with district prisoners, and he will get to us, but in the meantime, I have been put in charge of every soul in this camp. And rest assured, I won't idly wait for him to set us free. Starting today, you'll be given new assignments. Half of you will continue operations here, overseeing the prisoners, keeping them in line and at work. The other half will be split into thirteen teams of twelve, one based here, and twelve that will go to the Capitol headquarters in each district to discuss the prisoners we have collected. I want to find out who they are, who their family is, what line of work they were in, and what could be gained from returning them."

Her mother's speech became a drone, monotonous and incomprehensible as the urge to focus abandoned Tacita entirely. None of it had anything to do with her, and she was just about reaching her limit on dealing with people. The closest soldier to her was a beefy man four rows in front, and she could hear his mouth-breathing from here. Her nerves were fraying at every edge.

"The District Three team will be headed by Captain Rufus Tunica and will be comprised of . . ."

All around her, soldiers were rising as their names were listed, giving their commander a brief nod then turning to go. Her mother allowed this, as though there was some sort of unspoken rule that they were allowed to leave once called. But Tacita wasn't a soldier—she'd never get the chance to leave.

Wait. As luck would have it, the District 12 regiment included the large man a few rows in front of her. He rose, and she rose with him, hoping to slip out without her mother noticing. Just as she was picking her way through the chairs, however, a new voice stopped her.

"Commander. May I speak?"

"Is there a problem, Lieutenant Silens?"

"No, ma'am. But I was wondering if you'd forgotten my previous experience in the districts. I've visited all of them, and I know Two and Five like the back of my hand. This combined with my rank has me wondering why you haven't given me command of a district regiment."

The teacher was learning from the student, it seemed; Ludovic was taking on a quarrelsome tone dangerously close to that of Miles's. Tacita repressed a shudder of disgust at the thought of someone actually arguing in favour of going to the districts, and made to continue her escape attempt, but her mother's next words froze her in her tracks.

"Apologies, Lieutenant. I didn't mean to cause offense. I only thought you would be better suited here, acting as both second-in-command and supervisor to Private Tacita Macer."

All remaining soldiers turned their gazes on her. She stood still as a statue, poised like a cartoon character as she tiptoed between the line of chairs. Heat was rushing to her cheeks, and she was vaguely aware of her mouth hanging open in surprise.

Ludovic wore a similar expression, as though someone had just slammed a frying pan into his face. He recovered quicker than she did, but there was still a note of utmost disbelief in his voice as he looked from Tacita to her mother.

"Begging your pardon, ma'am, but I don't think I heard—"

"You heard just fine, Lieutenant. Part of your duties here have included training young recruits, have they not? You will be continuing this role instructing Privates Tacita Macer, Miles Juvenis, Pueritia Proles, and Ephoebus Ver Aetatis in the realms of leadership and responsibility."

Her eyes were focused solely on Tacita as she carefully enunciated the last words. Tacita blinked and her mother was gone, replaced by Commander Macer, a woman even more strict and unforgiving than the one she was used to dealing with. Suddenly she wasn't a daughter anymore, she was a lowly grunt, a soldier, a military pawn—but that wasn't right! She'd barely had any training, she hardly knew the right side of a gun from the wrong one, what the hell was her mother playing at?

Commander Macer broke eye contact to look down at the sheet in her hands, before glancing around the room at the three other privates who had stood. "The five of you will be taking on Cellblock 74. It's one of the children's cell blocks, so trouble should be minimal. You're task is to figure out how they're best used, and to organise their work as you see fit. Dismissed."

The three privates nodded. Miles was actually smiling, as though excited to have been given such a position. Even Ludovic was currently going along with it, though the way his brow furrowed indicated he wasn't exactly happy with the arrangement.

He wasn't the only one. Tacita's heart was pounding in her ears, and there was a scream building in the back of her throat. But she couldn't make a sound. People kept watching her, and her mother was moving on, addressing others, and _still_ she couldn't move, struck dumb by confusion and anger and . . . and fear. She didn't want to be a solider; she _couldn't_ be a soldier. Her mother was trying to groom her for a life spent at the camps, but she didn't _want_ that!

"Tacita?"

She was so stuck in her head, she hadn't noticed Ludovic approach. He was at her side now, the three other young soldiers standing behind him, watching her with expressions that ranged from amused to annoyed.

"Taci—" Ludovic stopped himself short with a small shake of his head. He opened his mouth and tried again. "Private Macer?"

Private Macer. That's who she was now. In the span of a few short minutes, her whole world had come crumbling down. Just like when the war had started. Just like when her father had died. Just like when Magna . . .

Without warning, she turned on her heel and marched away from Ludovic, heading straight for the exit to the pit. She hoped she was fast enough so that none of the others saw the fresh tears rising in her eyes.

* * *

 _And I've grown familiar_  
 _With villains that live in my head_  
 _They beg me to write them_  
 _So I'll never die when I'm dead_

* * *

 _Note: Thank you for reading. My apologies for the late update. The summer job season has started up, and it was a bit busier than I anticipated in the beginning. I hope to resume the usual update schedule, but check my profile if there are any more missed updates - I'll try to at least post an explanation there._

 _If all goes as planned, we'll start to hear about some of our tributes in the Friday update. They won't be appearing for another chapter or two yet though, so there's still plenty of time to submit if you would like to. Thank you very much to all who have already._

 _One last note on chapter lengths, since I know they've varied quite a bit in these first three chapters. My aim is to write somewhere between 2000-5000 words for each chapter depending on how much content is required. I'm not sure what the standard for is though, so if you find the long ones are too much to read at once, I can shorten this as necessary._


	4. Scream

_You get up_  
 _And somebody tells you  
Where to go to  
When you get there  
Everybody's telling you  
What to do_

* * *

It was exactly 1800 hours when the programmed clocks in every bedroom of the Dark River barracks emitted a shrill, sharp beep in unison. This was normal, nothing to cause alarm—it only meant the soldiers could begin to make their way to the mess for another carefully regulated supper ration.

What was considerably more unusual was that the door marked with only two names instead of four was opening to reveal a short, fearfully skinny girl who neither slunk out with her back against the wall nor had to be dragged into the hall by her domineering mother. For the first time in months, Tacita Macer stormed purposefully out of her room, bright-eyed and red-cheeked, looking more alive and angry than anyone had ever seen her.

Heads turned in surprise as she passed, but she had no time for being embarrassed; she barely noticed the others at all. There was only one person she had time for, and she just couldn't wait to meet her mother in the mess. Now it was her turn to be embarrassed in front of the camp's entire military unit.

It had been close to four hours since the debriefing had passed, and Tacita still wanted to scream at the mere thought of it. She _had_ screamed, when she'd returned to her room—screamed, stomped her feet, and thrown her desk lamp before dissolving into sobs, then the shakes that wracked her body and rattled her teeth so violently she was sure something would break. It had taken an hour of sitting under a hot shower before enough of the chill had left her to slow the shivers.

Turning the fear to anger helped. Stop asking _what will happen if I have to become a soldier?_ and start with the questions like _WHY should I have to become a soldier?_ Her mother had no right to do this to her. It probably wasn't even legal; Tacita had no official status in the military, and had never applied for such, so how could she possibly be given responsibility for an operation? It was insane, and she wouldn't stand for it.

Tacita turned a corner and made a beeline for the door on the left of the hall leading to the mess. There wasn't so much of a moment's pause for breath before she tore into the room. This time, she wouldn't hesitate. This time, she would tell her mother exactly what she thought of her.

Except . . . her mother wasn't in the mess. There were only about fifty other soldiers packed around crammed tables, all of whom looked up as she flung the door open, breathing hard, hair a frizzy mess, white shirt and pants a glaringly different look compared to all their uniforms.

Immediately, the colour fled her cheeks. Her chest deflated like a popped balloon as her eyes frantically scanned the crowd, searching over and over for a face she was horribly aware was missing. Every carefully crafted, charismatic argument she'd gone over in her head had disappeared, leaving her only with an arsenal of stuttered syllables and uncomfortable gasps.

Why did everyone always have to look at her so intently?

Within two seconds, she'd gone from fight to flight. Already she was contemplating slamming the door and racing back to hide in her bedroom, never to be seen again, but then she caught the smell.

Meat. Ham, by the looks of the plates the soldiers were returning to. And scalloped potatoes. Her stomach groaned, and before she knew what she was doing, she found herself in the line to the kitchen, a tray in hand. After everything that had happened, she'd sworn she would never let herself go hungry again, not even for a second.

Besides, the eyes were off her now, and it made it easier to breathe. For a small moment. Relief promptly abandoned her as well once she reached the front of the line and received her portion from the cook.

There was barely half a palm's worth of potatoes on her plate. The cut of ham was even smaller. She'd seen the food on other's plates, but she'd thought they'd eaten most of their share already. This was the smallest meal she'd ever had at the camp. This . . . This was like the early stage of rations when the districts first cut off the Capitol's supply of food.

Were things going to get that bad here too?

 _Rancid smells. Disease. Death. Screaming, fighting, blood, blood,_ blood _._

"The hell is this?"

Someone was talking, in line beside her; Tacita barely caught the words, mind lost in the horrors of the past.

"It's your supper, Simmons."

That was the cook, voice deep and gravelly. _Focus on that, focus on that, get out of your head, you can't do this, not here, not in front of everyone._

"It's half the size of this morning's."

"Well, this morning we all thought we were going home. Now we're gonna be here for a while, and we have no idea when we'll be getting more supplies."

"The districts are back under our thumb, aren't they? Just send for more."

"Oh, that's brilliant, Simmons, real brilliant. No need to worry about all those tracks that got ripped up during the war. The fields that got torched? Not a problem. Fuel spills in the ocean that killed all the fish? Psh, that's too easy to fix."

"All right, all right, I get it."

"You better. I've got a camp of eight hundred to feed. Don't need complainers like you wasting my—"

"Oi, quit holding up the line!"

Tacita jumped as though the words were knives. They weren't even directed at her—the disgruntled men behind her were all watching Captain Querela Simmons who was on the receiving end of a dirty look from the camp's cook. After an irritated huff, the captain moved away, and Tacita moved with her. Her body was on autopilot; she was vaguely aware of the embarrassment that would ensue if remained frozen before the cook's counter, but most of her focus was on the food.

She wasn't panicking anymore. Anger had washed over her in another, increasingly frequent, wave, drowning everything else in her head.

 _Eight hundred to feed,_ the cook had said. Eight hundred, and yet Dark River Camp only had two hundred soldiers in its service.

He was counting the prisoners. The vulgar, savage district _trash_ were being fed while the Capitol's hardworking citizens were starving all over again. War had turned Panem on its head, but the fighting was _finished—_ the country shouldn't be backwards anymore!

Tacita wanted to throw her tray across the room. She would have, had she still been twelve. But the war had taught her far too much about the value of food, even portions as small as this. Her mother thought she was childish, but the past six years had aged Tacita beyond anyone's comprehension. She wasn't too young to become a soldier; she was too old.

She felt it, too, as she collapsed onto her favourite bench at the back of the room, beneath the burnt-out bulb that shrouded her in shadows. Her muscles ached, her stomach felt sick, and in her mind, she was the only one who understand Panem's dire situation. Didn't her mother know peace with the district people had never worked? They'd just had a six-year war. Ages before that, just after the Period of Great Devastation, the district people's ancestors had fought like animals over the remaining scraps of resources before the first Capitol citizens had succeeded in uniting them. And before _that_ , well, her mother could take her pick. Hundreds upon hundreds of wars, battles, fights, invasions, genocides, all proof that most people were just sick. They'd jump to violence the moment they were given the opportunity, and her mother and, yes, the president were doing just that.

So what if these thoughts made her a rebel? They were truth. The only way for Panem to thrive was to kill the ones corrupting it. Round them all up in a big cell and—

"Hello, Tacita."

She blinked. Her fork was in hand, about to stab down again into her now rather mashed potatoes. Standing just behind it, across the table from her, was an older man in a greying suit, one sleeve sewn up at his shoulder. Arm blown off in a raid by some bastards from 5, so the stories went. Without two hands to hold a gun, he was no use to the military, which was the only way someone on the base could be released from duty to take up a role besides soldiering. Even the cook was part-time, a sniper whenever he was otherwise needed. But Dr. Auris Meden was a man with only one job, and at the moment, only one patient.

"It's been a little while. I'm so sorry I've been so busy," he said, sitting down across from her without any kind of permission. His grey eyes went to the potatoes on her tray, and two bushy black brows rose. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," Tacita muttered, quickly scooping up the potatoes and shoving them into her mouth. All things considered, they weren't that bad, though it only made her stomach ache more at the thought of her tiny serving. There would be no seconds here; they had to make sure the district people had enough to eat.

 _Selfish, useless, murderous—_

Her fork clattered to her plate. "Actually, I'm not fine."

Long ago, she had challenged herself to see just how high she could get Dr. Meden's eyebrows; his expression now had to be some kind of record. She'd never once been so quick to announce her feelings, but problems had been building against the dam in her mind ever since her mother had returned, and finally, something had cracked.

She didn't have to tell him everything _._ But he'd always said he was there to listen, and she'd come up with too many good arguments against her mother to let them go to waste.

"You were at the debriefing?" she asked. Judging by the doctor's sigh in response, he had been. "So you know I'm not the one who needs you. My mother is insane."

"Tacita, I understand your anger, but I think you might be missing the point."

"The point? The _point_ is Caecilia Macer is neither a fit commander nor an adequate mother. She wants to put me and three other kids in charge of a bunch of war-crazed murderers? That's putting the whole camp in danger!"

"They're children from a refugee train, Tacita, they're hardly killers. And Lieutenant Silens will be with you every step of the way."

"Like that's going to help me," she hissed, jerking her head at a table over the doctor's shoulder. Ludovic was seated about halfway across the room, having dinner with his three _real_ privates. The young soldiers were immersed in some story Miles was recounting, but the lieutenant had been staring at her since she'd sat down. His was a face always kept carefully blank, but she could tell he was inwardly giving her the evil eye. Of course he would blame her for her mother's decisions; there wasn't enough going wrong in her life, and Ludovic was always ready to lend a helping hand.

"You're jumping to conclusions again," Dr. Meden said, his tone soft and reassuring. It didn't calm Tacita at all, though, not as he continued, "I'm sure Lieutenant Silens is happy to have this position. There's nothing more rewarding than educating a new generation. Think of this as school, Tacita, only you'll be learning even more valuable lessons than math or history. This assignment is going to be an incredible boost to your self-confidence. You'll learn how to handle responsibility, how to work with a team—it's fantastic life experience."

He was too earnest. Eyes wide, remaining hand out, each gesture just a little overdone to hide the lie that lay beneath. It was subtle, but then, she'd spent nine months sitting through sessions in which the good doctor would repeatedly assure her his privacy policy was absolute and there was no way her words would get back to her mother. She recognised his tells.

"You knew."

It wasn't a question. Dr. Meden gave a heavy sigh.

"Yes."

"And you let her go through it?"

"I wholeheartedly supported the decision."

His response was a slap in the face. Tacita had always known he was one of her mother's toadies, hired only because the commander of the camp had no time to deal with her own daughter, but still, he . . . he'd listened. Even if she hadn't said much, he'd always been there, expectant and attentive.

She'd never admit it, but he made her feel . . . worth something. After all that had happened, it had been nice to feel that again.

And now that reassurance had been snatched from her, like everything else in her life. She shouldn't even be surprised anymore.

But she could get angry. The cold type of anger, that Dr. Meden had warned her against for so long.

He saw the change in her face, and, as always, sought to "fix" her. "Tacita, think about it, please. Do you know what this exercise could mean for you? You're not just one of the other privates, you're the leader of your group—even Lieutenant Silens is taking orders from you, to a certain degree. The others are being taught how to follow, but your mother is grooming you for a commander's position. There's no higher honour."

"You said I had to stay away from violence and violent thoughts," she interrupted before he started crying tears of pride and joy. She wouldn't put it past him; he was remarkably adept at putting a positive spin on terrible things.

Perhaps that was all therapists were actually trained to do: sell the world on someone's sanity, even if it didn't exist.

"And now you're putting me in charge of rebellious criminals," she continued, her voice kept carefully neutral. "What, exactly, do you expect to happen?"

His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and she broke eye contact, wondering if he knew what sort of thoughts were flying around her head in this instant. But before he could respond, someone else interrupted.

"Private Macer."

Ludovic was standing at attention barely a foot from where Tacita sat. She stared up at him, wondering how she could have possibly missed his approach, then realised he was waiting for her to speak. "O-Oh. Yes?"

The slightest of frowns marred his smooth face.

". . . Sir?"

He gave a curt nod and stuck out his hand. A thick manila folder dropped onto the table before her.

"For our assignment tomorrow," he said as she gingerly reached for the folder. "Meet outside Cellblock 74 at zero six hundred hours."

Zero six hundred hours. Not six am, as people would usually have told her. Already, Ludovic had erased Tacita from his mind, and expected to see a perfect Private Macer sitting in her place.

"Yes, sir," she all but whispered.

Ludovic spun on his heel and headed back towards his table without so much as a goodbye. Tacita's eyes were still on him when she realised Miles and the two other privates were watching her, not their approaching lieutenant.

They looked away the moment she noticed. But when Ludovic returned to his seat, Miles's eyes flickered up to hers again. He said something that made the scarred girl across from him duck her head to hide her twisted smile while the massive boy at her side shook his head. Ludovic didn't react, though he also did nothing to reprimand Miles for what was surely a nasty comment against Tacita.

She dropped her gaze to the folder, for lack of anywhere better to look. Dr. Meden was talking again, asking her something about coping methods and troubling thoughts, but it was an inaudible whisper in her ears. All she could hear was the roar of humiliation.

Humiliation and something else.

"—if you've been having a difficult time again . . . Tacita?"

She flipped Ludovic's folder open. Up at the top, printed in large, bold letters, was:

 _DARK RIVER MISSIVE_

 _For Private Tacita Macer under the authority of Lieutenant Ludovic Silens._

 _Document concerns the situations and identities of the prisoners in Cellblock 74._

"Tacita, listen to me. You know I only have your best interests at heart—"

Her desire to ignore Dr. Meden kept her reading. Or perhaps it was morbid fascination, or some sort of bizarre, self-destructive response. Did she enjoy making herself angry to the point of melting down?

 _Overview: Prisoners captured just within the borders of District 1 on March 27_ _th_ _, 1379. Train was travelling on one of District 6's "ghost tracks", but the location of the stops was leaked (informant remains unidentified). Capitol unit barricaded the track, halting the train and taking those aboard hostage. Population of the prisoners is largely made up of children under twenty. Originally, those captured were split according to district and housed with other prisoners, but this upped the likelihood of adult prisoners rebelling by 43%. Children were then moved to Cellblocks 74, 75i, 75ii, and 76 on June 3_ _rd_ _, 1379._

"—little I can do without the full story. If you'd just be willing to talk—"

 _Prisoners were first sent to help build the Dark River Railroad. After incidents involving adults working closely with them, prisoners were moved to field-tending work, which ceased after the war's end on June 10_ _th_ _, 1379. They have remained in Cellblock 74 since._

"—Tacita—"

 _Rations are picked up at 0630 and 1830 with code: 51674. Lunch rations have been cut due to lack of supplies. However, extra rations can be allotted if one of the prisoners becomes infirm or sickly._

"—really worried about this assignment, I could speak to your mother—"

"I think it's far too late for that."

She barely heard herself say the words. Her body was moving automatically again, sliding he folder under her arm and rising from the bench. When she spoke, it sounded faraway, lost amongst the clouds with her mind.

"I'm heading in for the night. Early start tomorrow."

"Tacita—"

She gave him no time to continue. Why would she, when she knew there was a possibility he could talk her down? The good doctor had a silver tongue and used words like pills to numb her heart and brain.

She didn't want that right now. She wanted to feel the full extent of her rage.

 _Rations are picked up . . ._

 _. . . extra rations can be allotted . . ._

Fragments of the document played on loop through her head, spurring her out of the mess and into the hall beyond. She was similarly unaware of her passage as she had been on her earlier walk over, barely taking in the grey walls and metal doors she passed. They went by in a blur, her feet moving faster and faster as the folder's words replayed in her head.

 _Rations are picked up . . ._

 _. . . extra rations can be allotted . . ._

She had to get to her room before she broke. The dam had sprung a leak with Dr. Meden; now she had to prepare for a flood.

 _Rations are picked up . . ._

 _. . . extra rations can be allotted . . ._

There! The door to her room was just down the hall. She all but ran to it, the folder flapping against her side as she moved, hitting her with its indignities over and over and over.

 _Rations are picked up . . ._

 _. . . extra rations can be allotted . . ._

She was at the door. Hands scrambled for the handle. It swung open, was slammed shut behind her. Back pressed against her, breaths coming in gasps, her lips parted and she _screamed._

The sound wasn't human. It was pure wrath. Wrath, and rage, and anguish. Screams turned to wails turned to howls turned back to screams, all intermingled with sobs as she fell to her knees and beat her mind with the unfairness of it all.

They were _feeding_ the 'Tricts. They were allotting them _extra rations_ to make sure they stayed healthy. Where had this support been when their own people were starving in their streets? Why weren't the districts suffering through a famine as terrible as that which the Capitol had endured? Why did they get a free pass from everything she . . . everything she had seen and . . . d-done?

She screeched again, like a dying animal, and fell on her side to curl into a ball. Padding underneath her side reminded her of the file she still had.

 _Rations are picked up . . ._

 _. . . extra rations can be allotted . . ._

The sound was a roar this time, a furious one as she jerked back up and tore the file from under her arm. Pages scattered as she flung it across the room, but it wasn't enough, _it could never be enough_.

With a ferocious yell, she leapt on the papers and found the one about the rations. _Riiiiip, riiiiip,_ and, _riiiiip_ again, until the page was nothing more than confetti in her hands. She flung the pieces into the air, but they scattered peacefully, too pretty for something so despicable. She needed more of the ripping, the shredding, the mangling.

A nearby page caught her attention. She snatched it up, glaring at the photograph clipped to it. A young boy, curly brown hair lining a furrowed, stubborn forehead. The measurements on the wall beside him marked him as 4'4"—a tiny child whose serious expression was betrayed by his height and the lingering roundness in his cheeks. He barely looked ten.

 _Baley Keene,_ said the words beneath the picture. _Age: 12, District: 9._

Beneath this, a few notes had been made.

 _\- Punished four times for rebellious talk. Believed to be an influence from the older kids rather than his own opinions. Behaviour is unacceptable, but prisoner is labelled as a non-threat._

 _\- Sister: Laurel Keene. Protective and aggressive around prisoner. Prone to starting fights with both other prisoners and guards (see file)_

Tacita's hand shook as her eyes moved back to the photograph. She couldn't take it. How _dare_ the district boy stare up at her, pouting like a child when he was anything but. He wasn't allowed to look like a Capitol child—he wasn't allowed to look like a _human_ child. 'Tricts were animals, all of them, from the moment they were born.

Another scream and she'd torn the page in two, then four, then eight. When the pieces grew too small to rip, her hands returned to the ground, searching the scattered papers for the file on Laurel Keene. She was aggressive, violent, and a _sister._

Nothing good could ever come of that combination.

She found the photograph easily; both siblings had the same piercing light blue eyes. Like wolf pups, young but dangerous, developing claws and teeth that, if kept with their pack, they would soon learn to use for murder.

The girl already looked halfway there. She glared out of her photograph, round face doing nothing to lessen the cruelty of her expression. Below the picture, typed neatly on the page, was a bulleted list considerably more extensive than that of her brother's, detailing her every altercation with a guard or prisoner.

 _Savage_. Tacita glowered right back at the photo as it was shred beneath her nails. The faintest glimmer of satisfaction lit her mind, but it wasn't enough, not by far. She needed _more._

No file was safe. A boy with thick eyebrows had the word _rebel_ written on his page, and that was all Tacita saw before she split his photograph right down the bridge of his nose. Another one with dark eyelashes and high cheekbones was vehemently cut to ribbons because 'Tricts weren't allowed to look pretty if they were monsters. The third boy had a cousin, which was practically a sister; Tacita took savage joy in tearing the two of them together and watching the pieces of their pictures fall to the ground, similar features melding into one abstract portrait.

By the time she started to slow down, the floor was covered in a layer of mock snow. Tacita could feel her arms growing heavy, and one of her fingers was stinging painfully. A papercut. Of course. The district people were drawing blood even without being present, and yet all she was allowed to do was shred some paper. It wasn't _fair._ Even if her mother allowed her to exterminate them all, it still wouldn't be. The 'Tricts would die without suffering, with their families and minds still intact. They'd never know her pain.

Tired, but still determined, Tacita picked up one of the few remaining full pages, fingers already moving to tear it down the middle. Her slackened pace gave her time to take in the image before she mangled it beyond recognition, and perhaps the girl's face was what stopped her short. Silvery blonde hair with dark eyebrows wasn't a common natural occurrence, and it gave Tacita enough pause, appraising the photograph, for her eyes to dip down to the words beneath the girl.

 _Thalia Silverlake. Age: 19. District: 3._

 _\- Upon move to the cellblocks, prisoner requested separation from Felix Twisp, stating his presence made her feel unsafe. Twisp was deemed a non-threat (see file), and request was ignored._

Her interest piqued, Tacita read on; she hadn't done more than a brief skim of the prisoners' information since Laurel Keene's file had made her so angry.

Silverlake, however, was nothing like Keene. Each new note raised Tacita's eyebrows, and when she reached the end, she searched frantically for the file on Twisp. Thankfully it too was one of the few that had yet to be destroyed.

 _Felix Twisp. Age: 18 (?). District: 6._

She read the full extent of his form as well, comparing notes with Silverlake's, and when she reached the end, she found herself feeling disappointed rather than angry. These two read like a soap opera she could so clearly envision in her head. And there was no sequel? Shame.

Well, technically there was. The two were both still alive; perhaps some shenanigans might ensue that would make Tacita's time with the prisoners a bit more bearable. Horror movies were her first love, but she was always a sucker for a good drama, if it was realistic. How much realer could real life get?

 _Too real, unfortunately,_ she thought, frowning as she contemplated the photographs in her hand. Anger was ebbing out of her mind, calmed by the only subject that could rein her feelings in: television. She'd watched much in her time, not now, of course, but before the war, and even though she'd been young, she wasn't stupid enough to believe Capitol reality shows were actually real. Real life wasn't that dramatic unless someone was behind the scenes, manipulating the scenario to their advantage.

Which . . . was not unlike the task her mother had assigned her.

 _Figure out how they're best used._

 _Organise their work as you see fit._

As if in a trance, Tacita dropped the two files and rose to her feet. Her soft steps rustled the scattered pieces of paper as she made her way over to her desk. The top drawer was opened, a roll of tape pulled out.

She sat back on the floor, placed the tape beside her, and gently scooped up a handful of file pieces. Outward serenity masked inward chaos; her mind was racing, flipping through ideas like skimming pages of a book. There were too many to latch onto, but she knew at the base there was . . . something. Something that would fulfill all her wants, that would merge her two halves and make her whole again.

But for that, she needed research. She, shocking though it was, needed the prisoners she had so carelessly discarded.

Tape in hand, she started to sort the scattered fragments, piecing the files back together.

* * *

 _SCREAM 'til you feel it  
SCREAM 'til you believe it  
SCREAM and when it hurts you  
Scream it out loud_

* * *

 _Note: Terribly sorry for the second late update. Work forced me to shift my schedule a bit, but it should be back to normal by next week. Thank you all for your patience. Additionally, if your tribute wasn't mentioned in this chapter, don't worry; this is just meant as a taste of a few characters we'll be meeting later, it's not a tribute list. There's still time to submit as well, if you would like._

 _Thank you for reading._


	5. Raise the Stakes

_Holy water cannot help you now_  
 _See I've come to burn your kingdom down_  
 _And no rivers and no lakes can put the fire out_  
 _I'm gonna raise the stakes, I'm gonna smoke you out_

* * *

The human mind was a truly bizarre thing. Most days it could feel like never waking up, and then the night it spent without sleep would give way to its most energetic morning. And it could change so completely at the drop of a hat—consumed by emotions one day, and unflappably calm the next.

Half an hour before she should have even thought of leaving her room, Tacita found herself standing in front of a squat, circular building merely twenty feet from the fence that bordered Dark River's edge. Dawn had not yet come, and the electric lampposts weren't spread this far; all was dark in this corner of the camp.

Tacita didn't need light to know what label had been spray-painted on the concrete by the door.

 _CELLBLOCK 74_

Unlike its misleading name, the prison was not seventy-fourth in a line of similar buildings, but first in a line of four. Built in the year 1374 Post Devastation, it had remained nameless in its first few months of activity—a jail barely used hardly needed a name. Cellblock 74 was meant as a precaution just in case Dark River soldiers picked up a 'Trict or two, nothing more.

But then came the third year of the war, and District 1's declaration of defiance. Up until then, they had attempted neutrality as had 2, for both districts had borders that shared wide swaths of land with the Capitol. Fighting enemies with such a strong presence in their homes would have been madness, but then 1375 was now widely known as the Year of Insanity.

1 announced its support for the rebellion in the rather dramatic fashion of poisoning their last bulk shipment of wines to the Capitol, and that was that. Dark River, so close to the border between their fair city and the latest hive of anarchists, suddenly found itself taking many more prisoners than it had anticipated.

So two new cell blocks were built: 75i and 75ii as they were officially referred to and "The Twins" as they were unofficially. Later came 76, and then the prison houses; soon, 74 lay forgotten on the fringes of the camp. It was a rather poor design for a prison anyways, with only eleven cells meant to hold twenty-two people.

These lined not a hallway, but the back wall of the spacious main room, six cells on the first floor, and five reached by a narrow staircase and walkway that made up a small second level. In the central area below sat six tables, four stools apiece, with just enough floor space left over for "physical activity"—officially. Prisoner fights, unofficially.

And if that didn't suit their needs, they could take the door on the end of the first floor row of cells, which would lead them into an outdoor pen about the size of four cars stuck side-by-side, end-by-end. Or there was the door to the right of the main room, taking them to the rusting cellblock bathroom. The toilets always leaked, and the showers had only two settings: ice cold, and boiling hot. If you were looking for functional equipment in the prison, the only place you'd find it would be the electric dumbwaiter to the left of the tables, used to serve meals and other necessities without requiring any interaction from the guards.

A rather elaborate home for such undeserving occupants. Cellblock 74 had originally been built to be relatively self-sustaining, without the need for soldiers leading the prisoners about at all times. Back then, they'd had better things to do.

Back then, they also hadn't realised just how inhuman the district people could be. After the mass poisoning by 1, prison conditions dropped significantly.

At first, Tacita had felt like getting angry again as she researched the facility that held her captives. Their lodging was almost as nice as the soldier barracks, and that was all kinds of wrong. But thoughts of her plans calmed her soon after. A bigger space was better, she'd convinced herself. It allowed for more room to be . . . creative.

Inhaling a breath filled with anticipation, Tacita opened the folder she still held and withdrew the small keycard that had been slipped into the pocket. The electric lock by the door lit up green as she tapped her card against it. She pressed her thumb against a small pad next, praying her print had already been downloaded into the building's database. Ludovic's note in the folder had promised they would all be permitted access to the cellblock by this morning, but she wouldn't put it past him to "accidentally" forget about her.

A shrill beep followed, and the sound of the door unlocking. Tacita exhaled as her hand moved back to the folder. At least her supervisor wasn't that petty.

She looked up at the building's grey face, so like a tombstone, and her whole body shivered. This was it. She knew she had a creative mind; time to see if she also had the artistic drive to put her plans into action.

Deeper down, a more malicious hive of fervor was thrumming in time with her heart. _Time to put them through what they put us through. Time to show them they're no better than us. Than_ me.

She took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

It gave way with a bone-chilling _creeeeeak_ like nails on a chalkboard. Clearly it hadn't seen much traffic. Tacita stepped inside, running her hand along the wall. It took her mere moments to find the light switch that, fortunately, worked better than the door.

With the fluorescents glowing above her, she could see she was in a small, undecorated room, with two doors on either end and a spiral staircase in the middle. The lobby, it was called in the building's plans. She'd studied Cellblock 74 extensively, and knew every inch of it without so much as setting foot inside. The door on the left was to the washrooms for the soldiers; that on the right led down to the basement and the tiny kitchen where the prisoners' food was sent up via the dumbwaiter.

She went for neither; instead, she took the stairs, circling upwards to reach the second floor. The control room, the plans had said.

She'd liked the sound of that.

Once the landing was reached, another door stood in her path. A flash of her keycard, and she was granted access. By now, Tacita's trembling fingers could hardly hold her folder. She was excited. And nervous. And perhaps just a little bit afraid.

Of the prisoners, or her own thoughts, she couldn't quite say.

She pushed into the control room and stopped short, taking in the sight. It was just as she'd seen in the folder's pictures. System units as big as bookshelves, flat screen monitors, control boards with buttons and switches and dials. The computer she'd had before the war was a dinosaur compared to this tech, never mind the slow-working tablet she had now. Her fingers brushed against the towers as she repressed a childish squeal of delight. For the briefest of moments, she felt twelve again, gleefully shopping with her father for the latest piece of technology.

Her fingers found the power buttons. Computers whirred to life around her, the sounds muffled beneath a thick coating of dust. When was the last time someone had been in here? Tacita knew people had started slacking off when the war had ended, but they'd still kept track of the prisoners, right?

Her heart stopped for the few moments it took for the monitors to boot up. If they'd let her captives starve to death, she'd throw them all to her mother's nonexistent mercy. The show would be over before she'd even seen any of it, and everyone knew reruns were no fun to watch.

But no, there they were. Her heart restarted, pounding as the monitors glowed, now filled by four separate images from different cameras in the cellblock. Ten for the separate cells, and two for the washroom and yard, respectively. The last screen showed a full-frame image of the cellblock's main area. Every scene was a distorted mess of black and green—the prison lights were off, and the cameras were set to night vision, according to the control board before her.

Tacita didn't care. She could see enough.

They were all there, lying on their cots, asleep and ignorant to the world around them. Tacita could see little more than blurs, but after all the research she'd done, she felt certain she could identify them. That one curled up so tight into a ball it looked like it hurt, that had to be Carly Fissure. District: 8. Age: 16. Psychotic, paranoid, had a penchant for threatening to set anyone who touched her on fire. And the one sleeping with a hand under her flat pillow, as though used to grasping for a hidden weapon, that would be Baley Keene's infamous sister, Laurel. District: 9. Age: 15. Cold and hostile, with a mean protective streak that had strained her relationships with both the other prisoners, and her brother.

Tacita knew each and every one of them. Every detail of their lives she had pieced together, and when that hadn't been enough, she'd searched their names up on her tablet, seeing if anything public related to the prisoners. She drank information like an alcoholic with liquor, desperate for anything more she could get, and when that failed, she extrapolated, dreaming up their lives in her head. Now she could finally work with the real thing.

She sunk into a nearby chair, never taking her eyes off the monitors. How long she sat there, watching them, she couldn't say. No child moved, except for the occasional toss or turn from a nightmare. It didn't matter; the lack of action was just as exhilarating. When she did nothing, they did likewise. After she started stirring the pot, they'd be forced to respond. Their every action would be controlled by her. For once, Tacita Macer held all the power, and the 'Tricts had _none._

They were her tools. Her slaves. Her puppets.

Her characters.

"Who's—oh. Private Macer."

Tacita turned in her seat to see Ludovic standing in the open doorway. As always, he'd snuck up on her. This time, however, she was ready.

She stood, snapping her heels together and saluting as she'd seen Commander Macer do. Imitating her mother left a vile taste in her mouth, but it was worth it to see the look on Ludovic's face. Even the ever-composed lieutenant couldn't keep the surprise out of his expression.

That was how she needed him: off-balance, uncertain. Her mother had put her in charge of this exercise, but she knew that would mean little to Ludovic the moment he disagreed with her ideas. She had to get him used to deferring to her from the get-go, or all of her plans would go up in flames.

"Lieutenant Silens," she said, trying to make her voice loud and confident, like she'd been practicing earlier in the mirror. The effect was much harder to achieve with the actual soldier standing before her—had he always been so tall?—but it was nevertheless an improvement over her usual whispered speak. Ludovic's brows rose a fraction of an inch, showing more emotion than she'd ever seen on him before.

"Private Macer," he said after a moment, returning the salute. "You've made yourself at home, I see."

"Just trying to do my duty, sir."

Questions were burning in his eyes; in particular, she could tell _what the hell is this?_ was on the tip of his tongue.

After a moment's struggle, he managed to keep his composure, masking the warring expressions on his face with a quick nod. "Good. Well done, Private."

She smiled. His response told her everything about how reassuring that looked. He turned away, hands were held rigid behind his back, as though to keep them from fidgeting.

"I brought some supplies down to the kitchen," he continued suddenly, stepping back towards the door. "They need to be sorted. As you were, Private."

He was out the door before she could so much as salute. So he had been thrown off—good. Long had Tacita mourned her nonexistent beauty, hating how the neighbourhood children had teased her for her thin lips and "old lady hair", but today she embraced her unnerving appearance. It made people nervous around her, and nervous was what she needed.

With Ludovic gone, she returned her attention to the screens, guessing he wouldn't return until the threat of spending an uncomfortable morning alone with her had passed. Sure enough, when the sound of footsteps finally returned, they weren't alone. Miles Juvenis's voice carried remarkably well through walls.

"And then I—oh."

It was almost comical how similar his reaction was to his commanding officer's. Tacita smiled benignly at the group of four stopped in the doorway, meeting each pair of eyes focused on her. Had Ludovic not told them she was here?

Miles, beside Ludovic at the front of the group, let out a small sigh and turned to the girl, Pueritia, behind him. Tacita couldn't see well, but she swore something changed hands. So perhaps they'd known, but hadn't believed it. Had they been betting on the chances of her appearance, then? Just how often had her name come up in mocking tones behind her back?

 _Don't think about._ Her hands formed fists as she struggled to force down the shame rising in her throat. No, no, no, she couldn't cry, not here. She had to be in control. _Remember your plan, focus on that, only that._

Ludovic, at least, was not quite so biased as to let the behaviour of his privates go unnoticed. "Enough," he barked, giving Miles a pointed look before marching to Tacita's side. "Remember your orders. Private Macer is acting as your commanding officer in this exercise. Act like it."

The small amount of support wasn't what Tacita expected, and she was immeasurably grateful for it. Even more so when Ludovic's words pushed Ephoebus, the boy at the back of the group, to give her a stiff salute. After a glance in his direction, Pueritia slowly did the same.

Tacita's fists unclenched slightly as Miles reluctantly raised his hand. Her chest swelled, heart filling with confidence. Perhaps this wouldn't be as hard as she'd—

"Pardon me, Lieutenant, but would you mind reminding me why that is?" Miles said, fingers scratching his head instead of forming a straight salute. "No offense intended, of course, but Private Macer does have zero combat experience, and absolutely no idea how to lead."

"And you have no idea how to follow. An important quality to have in a soldier, I've heard."

Tacita, so caught up in her scorn, didn't fully realise she'd spoken allowed until everyone turned to stare at her.

Her heart dropped, confidence leaking out like a popped balloon. Dear Capitol, she . . . she'd said that aloud. She'd practiced these sorts of retorts in the mirror, imagining for every worst-case insult the others might throw at her, but she'd never thought she'd actually have the courage to say any such things. Without stuttering, no less. She couldn't even fathom how she'd managed it.

And yet . . . she liked it. The dumbstruck look on Miles's face, the surprise is Pueritia's eyes; she'd unsettled them, and it had given her a rush unlike anything she'd ever felt.

"Forgive me, Private Juvenis." She smiled. "No offense was intended, of course."

"Uh, right." Miles lowered his hand, half-raised it as if to perform a salute, then dropped it back to his side. All her month of silence had paid off; now that she'd spoken, she'd shattered the illusion of the weird girl they could poke fun at without consequence. No one knew how to deal with this new girl, this Private Macer.

"Would you like to be the one to start everything?" she asked, eager to extend some sort of olive branch to the now very confused private. Miles was the leader; endear herself to him, and she'd also have control of Pueritia. Ephoebus, well, he was a mystery for another day.

"Start everything?"

"It's six—zero six hundred hours," she corrected herself. "Time for lights on, yes?"

"Oh. Yes. Um . . ."

"Big switch on the left."

"Right."

Miles tentatively stepped over to the control panel, then glanced back at Ludovic for reassurance. The lieutenant had been watching their exchange without comment up until now, which Tacita had appreciated. Without him speaking, command of the situation had fallen to her.

Yet now Miles looked to him for orders. Tacita took a deep breath, squeezing her fingers together once more. Depending on Ludovic's response, it could solidify her position, or destroy it.

"You heard Private Macer. Follow your orders."

Miles blinked, nodded, and turned back to the switch. Tacita exhaled in time with the flickering monitors as the cameras shifted from night settings to day with the entrance of light into the cellblock.

Onscreen, the shapes of the prisoners, now much clearer, shifted and stirred. Some jumped up immediately, others took a slower approach; a boy from 1, Glass with no last name, had the nerve to turn on his stomach and shove his head deeper into his squashed pillow.

A reaction she had predicted. She knew him. She knew everyone—on paper, that was.

Now it was finally time to see them in action.

"It's been a while since they've been given a chance to stretch their legs. Lieutenant Silens, what does the log say about the last soldiers to let the prisoners out of their cell?"

The question was a formality. Such information could be found in their folder, and she'd memorised every word as she'd taped them back together.

"Two days ago, a few men thought to check in at twenty-two hundred hours." Ludovic's lip curled. "Regular maintenance of the cellblock fell behind after the war's end."

"About a day and a half, then. They must be thirsty. Private Proles, could you open all doors barring the main ones?"

Pueritia Proles was a girl of nineteen with the wrinkled face of an eighty-year-old. She'd been caught too close to a bombsite, according to the stories. It didn't matter; she was still older than Tacita, and getting her to obey wasn't quite the same thing as ordering about one of her peers.

"All doors? Including the yard?"

"Yes, please."

Pueritia paused for a moment; this time, Tacita barely had the opportunity to hold her breath before she received a nod.

"All right. Ma'am."

The last word sent a warm glow across Tacita's cheeks. Yet the sensation was nothing compared to the feeling she got watching onscreen as the cell doors opened.

 _Scene, begin._

The crazy from 8 was out first, of course. Carly Fissure had pulled out nearly half of her brown locks while trapped in her tiny cell. Her file hadn't said anything about this, but Tacita could infer some sort of claustrophobia, stemming from a childhood incident, perhaps?

She couldn't wait to find out.

Onscreen, Carly threw herself into the main area, hands alternating between rubbing her wrists and spreading out to feel the space around her. Her cellmate, Thalia Silverlake, was much more cautious, eyeing the open door to the yard with a suspicious twist to her face. In the neighbouring cell, seventeen-year-old Calla Ayers from 6 moved with the same reluctance.

Then the girl saw the open door to the washroom. Whatever hesitation she'd had fled the moment her eyes landed on it; with a rough cry, she took off for it, a swarm of female prisoners soon stumbling after her. The boys, on the second floor, were quick to race down the stairs and follow.

Tacita switched her gaze to the screen for the washroom, watching as dirty, desperate 'Tricts poured in. Some went for the sinks, others the shower stalls hidden behind curtains, wherever they could find water to drink. Tacita had to stifle a laugh as young Baley Keene reached a shower and twisted the dial, only to yelp and hop away as blistering water rained down on him. Had he really forgotten which way the temperatures went so soon? Simpleton.

Baley's sister snapped something at him, taking control of the shower herself. Though the younger Keene looked hurt, his feelings didn't seem to matter as the water turned cool. Soon both he and his sister were standing beneath the stream, mouths open to catch every drop that fell. Around them, all others were doing the same.

"They must be hungry too," Tacita all but whispered.

This was it. This was when things truly started.

"Private Ver Aetatis," she said, turning to the last of her soldiers. "Could you head down to the kitchen and prepare the prisoners' rations?"

This time, there was no hesitation. "Yes, ma'am."

"I'll go as well," Ludovic said, already heading for the door. "It's oatmeal today, you'll need to know how to heat them up."

 _Heated food,_ Tacita thought as the two men left. _Are we running a bed and breakfast?_

Her hands were fist again, nails digging into her palms. She had brief flashes of her explosion yesterday, but forced herself to choke down her feelings now. No, pampering the prisoners right now was good. They'd never expect her next commands.

Minutes passed as Ludovic and Ephoebus presumably occupied themselves downstairs while Tacita, Pueritia, and Miles watched the screens. The prisoners were still drinking like animals, lapping up any water they could, but it seemed some were starting to have their fill.

The first to break away from the washroom was Jabez Smithfield. _Predictable,_ Tacita thought, lip curling at the sight of the seventeen-year-old boy re-entering the main room. Though it was difficult to tell at first glance, the boy was born and raised in 10; of course he'd be used to parched conditions. Rattling him would prove to be a far more difficult task, but Tacita was up to the challenge. Stone was more fun to break than glass, Magna used to say with a smile and a wink.

Tacita had never understood the saying until now.

"Hey, Macer. Uh, Private Macer. There's a light blinking here."

She shook her head, clearing it of her sister's image, and turned to find Miles pointing at a flashing red button on the control panel. He looked apprehensive—had he even read his folder?

"It means the dumbwaiter's been loaded," Tacita said. Every word sent a thrum of electricity across her nerves. "Time to send it up."

She pressed the button herself this time. It could be no one else.

Jabez was staring at the yard door when the dumbwaiter beeped behind him. He jumped at the noise, and Tacita could tell he was doing everything he could to keep a leisurely pace instead of racing for the source of food.

The others weren't so restrained. Those in the washroom who had heard gave a shout and came running the moment the dumbwaiter opened. Jabez removed a tray of cans, eighteen in all, each filled halfway with a mushy brown paste. If it tasted as appetising as it looked, then Tacita could at least rest assured they weren't pampering the prisoners nearly as much as she'd thought.

Not that the children onscreen cared for the state of their breakfast. Many looked about to pounce on the food, but Jabez was talking, sliding the tray onto a table by his side, forcing him to wait for a moment while he spoke. They didn't have the speakers on, so Tacita couldn't hear anything, but she was sure he was giving them some kind of talk about safety and going slow. Surprisingly, most of the others calmed down enough to listen.

He didn't hold them up long; perhaps he knew how desperate they were. But he did take on the role of handing out the cans one at a time, making sure nothing got spilled in a chaotic rush for the food.

In one swift move, Jabez Smithfield had taken a group of crazy, frantic 'Tricts and given the some sense of order. Looked like Tacita wasn't the only one playing the power game—even if the boy was unaware of what exactly he was achieving, he was still dangerous. And he'd been the one to have _rebel_ written on his file. Yes, he was one to watch indeed.

At the back of the crowd of prisoners, an older boy from 9, Saiph Sarabande, watched the proceedings with a raised eyebrow. Nearby, Glass from 1 was in the middle of what looked like a derisive snort. It didn't stop the two of them from lining up for their own respective cans, but it had still given them pause. Not all, it seemed, liked a natural leader, especially when he challenged their own authority. Perhaps Tacita had less to worry about than she thought.

 _That's right. Hate each other. Hurt each other. That's what animals do._

Ah—she'd almost forgotten the most important part. The moment's vicious pleasure had nearly distracted her for too long; this was a plan better conducted with Ludovic still out of the room. He'd disagree, of course, and it was always better to beg forgiveness than ask permission.

Quickly, now, before he returned.

Pueritia, standing by the monitors, stepped back in surprise as Tacita forced past her. The microphone for the prison's intercom system was on the desk behind her, and it was this Tacita grabbed for now.

Just like she'd practiced. Deep breath. Clear throat. Loud voice. She would be soft-spoken and meek no longer.

 _It's time._

She flicked the microphone on, ignoring the questioning looks from Miles and Pueritia. In this moment, the only people who existed were Tacita and the children left under her charge.

"Good morning, prisoners. I trust you're enjoying your breakfast."

Some were lost to the world, too distracted by the food, but others were clearheaded enough to look up. The smarter ones had enough sense to look concerned; announced messages rarely ever came.

"At least, I sincerely hope you do, because it won't last. None of this will. The Capitol, you see, is fed up with your kind. You're useless, and ungrateful, and so we're finally abandoning you like the animals you are."

That sparked some anger. Some, even, looked relieved, as though abandonment from the Capitol was synonymous with freedom. Most had the right idea, though. Wide eyes, paling faces—they were afraid.

"Unless you manage to change our minds, then this is it. No more communication, no more leaving the cellblock. And the food, well, that's very interesting. Tonight, you will receive your daily dinner rations, but you'll notice something . . . different. There will be one less portion than there are prisoners. Tomorrow morning, two less. And so on, and so forth."

Pueritia and Miles were staring at her, open-mouthed. The children in the cellblock looked much the same. On this day, fear radiated from everyone except Tacita Macer, because _she_ had caused it.

"Goodbye, prisoners. To many of you, I doubt we'll be speaking again." She couldn't help but smile. "Have a nice life."

The microphone clicked off just as the door crashed open. Ludovic was yelling something, and now that the spell of silence had been broken, Miles and Pueritia were chiming in with their own confused babbling. Onscreen, Jabez Smithfield's order had dissolved into chaos as prisoners cried or demanded answers.

Tacita took it all in with a smile on her face. They would all understand soon enough. The soldiers would realise she was right, and the district children . . . they would know pain as she had known it. Physical hurt was just the tip of the iceberg. When she was done with them, they'd be shattered.

Just as the war had done to her.

* * *

 _For what has been done_  
 _Cannot be undone_  
 _In the evil's heart_  
 _In the evil's soul_

* * *

 _Note: My deepest apologies again for the late update. Work training and some lingering issues with school upset my typical schedule. I plan to shift my Saturday update to Sunday because of this, and in order to give enough time for any outstanding tribute submissions to be finished. If you are still interested in submitting, the deadline is now this Saturday, as Sunday will be the first chapter from a tribute's point of view._

 _Thank you all very much for reading, and for being patient._


	6. Cast Away

_Deep in the ocean, dead and cast away_  
 _Where innocence is burned in flames_  
 _A million mile from home, I'm walking ahead_  
 _I'm frozen to the bones, I am..._

* * *

Jabez Smithfield had decidedly not had a nice life.

Though it was arguable that perhaps, once upon a time, he had. Old memories of a beautiful blue stucco house on the outskirts of District 10's most populous city occasionally came to mind. A bright front porch often blocked by a fat old cat stretched out in the sun. A colourful living room reflected in a glass coffee table, in which his pa's train ticket collection had been inlaid. A little yellow bedroom with a bed big enough for two, where he and his ma would sit as she read from her special book.

It didn't matter the life he'd had; the war nullified everything nice. Picturing the cat left an ache of loss in its wake. Happy thoughts of his pa were quashed by dismal question marks. Memories of his ma faded into an image of her dwindling figure as his mind forced him to abandon her over and over again.

No, his life had not been _nice._ But the moment the voice over the intercom wished him one, Jabez knew, no matter what he had experienced so far, worse was yet to come.

It started the moment the intercom crackled and die. Jabez stood frozen by the dumbwaiter, eyes trained upward, ears straining to catch more, but there was none. Not that he'd be able to hear it over the clamour that broke out.

The whispers of his fellow prisoners might as well have been shouts. In the weeks spent at Dark River camp, the guards of their cellblock had never missed an opportunity to beat silence into a child. Whenever they were out of their cells, they were watched constantly and never permitted to talk amongst themselves. His brief words before they'd eaten had been an anomaly, an instinct even his cowed mind couldn't stop. Yet no guard had appeared to punish him, and that fact seemed to have given some enough courage to open their mouths.

"What are they talking about?"

"Abandoning us? Are they letting us go?"

"What do they mean?"

"Less rations? Are they serious?"

"This isn't good."

The words were mere hisses amongst pairs of prisoners, until a young boy decided to speak. No more than six, he hadn't yet mastered the ability to talk softly; he spoke, loud enough for them all to hear, "Who was that? Where are they? Why can't I see them?"

He tugged on the hand of a girl at his side. She gave him a worried frown, but could do nothing to stop him; the arm he didn't hold was wrapped tight around a baby.

"Hush, Minjae," she said, eyes darting for the door as though it would be kicked open by soldiers at any moment.

The boy stopped talking, but he continued pulling the girl's arm. She seemed unable to force him away, and while he was small, so was she, enough to be rocked by his pulling in a jerky movement that woke her baby.

The sound of crying filled the cellblock. Jabez tensed. Though he didn't know anyone's names, he'd heard the same wails before throughout their weeks in the cellblock, and it had always signalled the worst. Even a six-year-old could be taught with a hit not to speak, but a baby was a baby, and he wasn't eager to see the soldiers manhandle it or its caretaker again.

"Hush, Cammie. Hush," the girl whispered nervously, bouncing the baby with one arm while glancing to the door. Still, no guards came.

They were never this late; usually it was they who handed out the food from the dumbwaiter, not Jabez. Could the voice over the intercom have told the truth? Was the Capitol really abandoning them?

The others grew louder, braver in the continued absence of the guards and as the baby's cries masked their voices.

"What the hell are they talking about?"

"This is a complete joke."

"It doesn't make any sense."

"What, bored of mistreating us already?"

More than brave. They were getting reckless.

"Hey!"

Everyone jumped at the shout, expecting a guard, but it was only an older boy glaring at the ceiling's speaker. One look was all Jabez needed to know this could lead to trouble.

It only worsened when the boy scrambled onto the nearest table, standing tall and defiant before any guards who might be watching. With shaggy bronze hair curling around his face and eyes alight with ferocity, he looked like a lion ready to roar. And roar he did.

"So we're useless now? _We're_ ungrateful? Why don't you come down here and say that to our faces?"

"Are you crazy?" a younger girl hissed. "Don't test them!"

"And stand for this . . . this bullshit?" The boy licked his lips, glancing towards the door. When it didn't move, he continued, emboldened. "No way."

"We're not supposed to talk," whispered a freckled girl around Jabez's age. "Please, please don't get us into trouble."

"They want us not to talk? Fine."

Jabez knew what was going to happen right before it did. The boy on the table still held his half-full tin of oatmeal, and his grip tightened on it as he swung his arm back. Once upon a time, Jabez might have agreed with this course of action, but now the scars across his body prickled and he knew he had to be smarter. A few weeks in a place like this could quash the rebellion out of anyone. This boy here had either an indomitable spirit, or a very thick skull.

"Wait—"

He stepped towards the table, speaking without thinking, but it was too late. The boy had already whipped his arm forward, launching the tin across the room. The path to the ceiling intercom was too far, and he knew it; instead, he'd aimed for the camera perched above the cellblock doorway.

Everyone watched, breath held, as the tin flew towards the wall. The boy was strong, even after they'd all wasted away in the camp, but his aim was, thankfully, off. With a clattering crash, the tin hit the space just above the camera, crumpling from the impact. Jabez barely had time to feel relieved before the tin fell, revealing a clump of oatmeal plastered to the wall, which promptly dripped right onto the camera.

They weren't just talking out of turn now. They'd potentially broken Capitol property.

The door remained closed. There were no guards in sight.

The boy on the table smirked. A younger boy looked less impressed.

"Hey!" he said indignantly. "Don't throw the food!"

"Someone has to make a statement."

"You're wasting stuff! You heard them, they're cutting us off."

"Baley, shut up." The same girl who had called the tin thrower crazy had rejoined the conversation, her attention now focused on the young one who shared her piercing light blue eyes.

"But it's true."

"No one needs the reminder, so just—"

"—bluffing anyways—"

"—can't be happening—"

"—punishing us—"

"—camera—"

"—be so mad—"

Once again, individual voices were lost in a sea of growing hysterics. Arguments had broken out, there was another person on a table, two more tins were thrown or dropped—after the carefully structured order of the Capitol guards, this was madness. And madness, Jabez knew, got people hurt. He had to say something.

"Hey . . ."

But the word was drowned out by those of others. He swallowed, ready to try again, but not a sound left his mouth. Before, it had been easier; he'd held the food, and, by extension, everyone's undivided attention. Now, no one was so much as looking at him. He needed to speak, but he had no words. Better yet, he needed to _do_ something—what, though, he couldn't figure out.

He didn't have to. Someone beat him to the punch.

Everyone was talking and looking in different directions, yet all eyes travelled to the same boy the moment he moved. No, not boy—man, Jabez thought. He may have had a youthful face, but he was easily the tallest present, and his expression just made him seem so mature. His cheeks weren't an fearful white or an angry red, his eyes neither wide nor narrowed; he simply looked neutral, and there was a solidity in this that the younger ones gravitated to. Even the pair on the table stopped to watch as the man stepped away from the chaos of the dining area and towards, of all people, Jabez.

He felt his spine straighten as the man approached, half-expecting to be reprimanded for not controlling the situation. What would his pa have said, had he been here?

But this man only ignored him, walking right by to the table where the food tray still sat. With careful precision, an empty tin was placed in the corner, and then the man turned on his heel and strode away, acknowledging no one as he passed. The eyes of every prisoner never left his back as he reached the door to the yard and stepped through.

Of course—it was the routine, after all. Once a day, for an hour, the doors to the yard and washroom would open, allowing them access. The girls would shower and do what they needed for thirty minutes, then the boys would take their turn, with the other half outside enjoining the minimal sunlight they could get while not busy. Jabez admired the other man for thinking to follow the standard procedure even with no guards present, though a sinking feeling in his stomach told him it wouldn't help matters. The doors had never been opened this early before, and obviously the intercom message was in no way a part of their daily routine.

Still, for now, some familiar structure might help. An older, blonde girl, with one last glare at the yard, swiftly deposited her tin and headed in the opposite direction towards the washrooms. Others began to follow both her and the boy; to Jabez's relief, this even included the two on the tables. There was certainly a time and place for standing up to the Capitol, but trapped in a cellblock, completely at their mercy, just after a series of harrowing threats, was not it.

He stood still until the tray was filled, watching everyone deposit their tin. The last girl to approach was the same soft-spoken one who had urged the boy on the table not to get the in trouble. She looked down as she placed both hers and the thrown tin onto the tray, then peered up at Jabez, nervous, but also expectant.

He frowned. She glanced to the tin in his own hand. He placed it in the last remaining spot on the tray, and she lifted the whole thing in her arms, wobbling carefully towards the dumbwaiter that still stood open. Normally this was a guard's job, but without their presence, the girl took it upon herself to slide the tray inside the smooth chrome box before swinging the door shut.

Immediately, a lock clicked, and then a whirring began as the dumbwaiter took their dishes down, presumably to the prison kitchen. The girl smiled slightly at the sound, as if receiving affirmation that she'd done what she'd been told. At least not everyone was out to foolishly challenge the Capitol without thinking things through.

"Thanks," Jabez managed, his voice still rusty from weeks of disuse.

She jumped, then gave him a quick nod. He watched her scurry back to the washroom, almost wishing he'd said more. He didn't even know her name. Didn't know anyone's, actually. They had been forbidden by the guards to introduce themselves, yet it seemed so many here already knew each other. Perhaps Jabez simply hadn't been forward enough with the other prisoners.

That would have to change, if what the voice said was true. Less rations meant rising tensions, and those could only be mitigated by knowing how to appease the others. He was going to have to . . . mingle.

The concept would have been a foreign one even in the years before the war. Jabez swallowed, rubbing his palms on the legs of his orange jumpsuit, and started towards the yard.

He'd only just entered when he nearly tripped over a little boy running across his path.

"Minjae!"

The girl with the baby caught up to him, cheeks flushed from exertion or embarrassment as she faced Jabez. Her lips parted, forming the first syllable of an apology, then she stopped and shook her head, looking down at the concrete floor of the yard.

The little boy by Jabez's feet took the girl's left hand, which still hung limp at her side. "Chia doesn't talk to strangers," he said in a whisper louder than any normal speech. "Who are you?"

"Minjae," the girl, Chia, murmured, words barely more than an exhalation. "Please, just—"

"Come here, Minjae. We can take him, Chia."

The same blue-eyed siblings who'd berated the tin thrower were sitting against the fence opposite the entrance. It was the boy who had spoken, and patted his lap; upon seeing this, Minjae giggled and ran towards the pair, all but catapulting himself into the boy's stomach. The girl next to him looked on with barely concealed disgust, but Minjae's sister—for she had to be his sister, they looked so alike—gave him a tiny, grateful smile.

"Thank you," she squeaked. She turned back around, saw Jabez, and took a startled step back. He did the same, holding the yard door open for her to run through, baby held close to her chest. She had to be, what, fifteen? And already playing Ma to what Jabez guessed were her siblings.

He hadn't known. He'd noticed, yes, but in a place where your own survival was balanced on the head of a pin, getting to know others often fell by the wayside. He couldn't remember a single conversation he'd had with the other prisoners.

And yet here was a boy at least five years younger than him who was volunteering to babysit another girl's younger brother.

The girl at his side, however, didn't look so willing. "How many times have I told you to stop talking to them?" she hissed, glaring at the little boy sitting oblivious beside her. "We have enough to worry about as is."

"He's a little kid, Laurel," the boy—what had he been called? Baley?—said. "Chia can barely handle the baby by herself. And Minjae's fun to play with."

The young boy turned to stare at Baley, eyes wide. "Can we play today? Really?"

"Not unless you want to get slapped again," Laurel said before Baley could respond. "You remember that? Remember the big, mean, scary man who hits you if you make too much noise?"

Minjae stared at her, face scrunching up. Laurel rolled her eyes as he started to cry.

Baley sighed. "Laurel—"

" _You_ should remember it to. Or did you forget you got in trouble because of him as well? And then you got _me_ in trouble," she added, rolling up the sleeve of her jumpsuit to reveal a series of darkened bruises along her arm.

Baley looked away. "You didn't have to hit the guard," he muttered into his lap.

"Of course I did. Remember what Da said?"

"I know, I know. You're just trying to—"

"Protect your ass is what I'm trying to do. So you could make my job a little easier."

Baley kept his eyes on his lap, but Jabez could see his ears turning red. Minjae was still crying into his chest, receiving a few half-hearted pats from the older boy. Laurel watched the both and scowled.

"Hey. Kid."

Oh no—it was the tin thrower, calling over to them from his position sprawled out by the side of the yard.

"Girl kid," he added when nearly every head turned his way. "You're supposed to be showering."

Laurel stuck her nose in the air and narrowed her eyes at him. "I can do what I want."

"That's really the opposite definition of prison."

"At least I'm not having a hissy fit and throwing shit all over the place," she snapped back at him. "I, unlike you, don't leave my family unattended."

"Well you'd better, because you're not coming into the showers with us. So go now or don't at all."

Her glower intensified as she opened her mouth to retort, but Baley beat her to it.

"Laurel," he murmured, still looking at a spot of pavement by his feet. "You should go. Remember what Da said about good hygiene? You don't want to get sick."

Interestingly enough, that sparked a change. For a moment, the girl's angry expression cracked as she looked back at Baley. Her glare quickly returned, but it was accompanied by a rise to her feet.

"Fine," she muttered, dusting off her jumpsuit. "Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone."

She sent another scowl to the tin thrower, then stormed over to the yard door. Jabez, so caught up in watching the scene unfold, was still standing in the doorway and didn't think to move until she forcefully shoved past him.

The moment she disappeared from sight, Baley let out an audible sigh of relief. Minjae swiveled in his lap to stick out his tongue at the door.

"She stinks," he said firmly.

The tin thrower smirked. "That's why she's going to take a shower."

Minjae giggled. Baley raised his head just long enough to reveal a glare identical to Laurel's.

"She's not that bad."

"She definitely is. You're welcome for getting rid of her, by the way."

"I'm not thanking you for anything."

"Still upset about the food?" Surprisingly, the older boy sighed. "Look, kid, I get it. I know food shouldn't be wasted—I'm from Nine too. Tiller's Quadrant."

Jabez couldn't guess what that meant, but Baley's ears perked up.

"But sometimes, you just have to know when sacrifice is worth it to make a statement. Trust me, I feel bad about it too."

"Sure that isn't just the hunger making you regret?"

The tin thrower turned to glare at a boy leaning against the far end of the fence. "No one asked you, Glasshole."

A delicate hand rose to rest against the boy's chest. "You know me? I'm flattered," he said, mockery dripping from every word. "Or should I be creeped out?"

"I only know because you never shut up about yourself. Got a mighty big ego for a street rat with no last name."

"Ah, but of course the existence of your family justifies your colossal arrogance."

"Oi!" That was the man who had first entered the yard. He was lying in the sun, eyes closed, yet somehow he knew exactly where to point his finger to single out the two boys. "You two. Put it back in your pants."

"Why?" The standing boy—Glass, Jabez remembered, having indeed overheard the boy speaking about himself before—stared down at the older man, smirking. "Feeling a bit . . . inferior?"

"For the sake of both your egos, I'd recommend you don't goad me into taking part."

"Are you still talking in figurative terms or—"

"Shut up. Both of you. And sit down," he added, tilting his head and shielding his eyes to glare at Glass. The boy rolled his eyes, but reluctantly did as bid, and then suddenly it was Jabez who found himself caught in the man's silver stare. "You too. Give me a heart attack every time I catch you out of the corner of my eye."

"I . . ." He shifted in the doorway, uncomfortably aware of being thrust into the spotlight of the scene. Watching people was so much easier than interacting with them. "Right, I'll just . . ."

"What are you doing there anyways?" the tin thrower said before he could so much as move. His eyes were narrowed suspiciously as Jabez went to sit. "Training to be a Capitol guard?"

The question came at him like an unexpected shove into the deep end of a pool. "What?"

"You're doing a great job so far. The handing-out-food bit, that was a nice touch. That why the Capitol's abandoning us?" The boy was sitting up straighter now, some of his earlier fire back in his eyes. "They've already got their own little soldier here?"

Jabez didn't know how to respond. The accusation was so absurd— _him_ , a Capitol guard, after everything he and his father had done. But then, did the mere fact that the boy was suggesting it mean he hadn't done enough?

"For Panem's sake, at least know the first thing about a guy before you start a fight."

Jabez hadn't expected anyone to come to his defense, least of all the man who'd told him to sit. He was done resting now, it seemed, propped up on his elbows to better shake his head at everyone around him.

"Jabez Smithfield," the man continued, turning his gaze back on the surprised boy he was introducing. "From Six, in good with the rebels, right?"

"From Ten, actually," he corrected, nerves not entirely calmed. The man had spoken up for him, yes, but his unreadable expression did little to comfort Jabez. "But, yes. My pa . . ." _Is? Was?_ How could he know? ". . . is Manuel Smithfield," he said, hating himself for the small bud of self-destructive hope that planted in his chest. "He was a member of the rebellion. A, um, a big one. He did a lot for them."

He hoped they only heard the pride in his voice, and not the despair behind it. _Pa . . . where are you now?_

He shook his head to clear it, and focused on the more present, solvable mystery. "How do you know me?" he asked the man, who hadn't stopped watching him since he'd started speaking. "I'm afraid I don't even know your name."

"Felix Twisp," came the curt reply. "And you did work for the rebels in Six."

"Just a little bit. Were you with them?"

The moment the question was posed, Felix's eyes flashed. It was so quick Jabez couldn't begin to decipher the emotions behind it; he was barely sure he'd seen anything. Already Felix was laying back on the ground.

"No," he said.

That, it seemed, was that. Even the tin thrower didn't pester him, though it was clear by the expression on his face that he dearly wanted to ask what that meant.

With Felix out of the conversation, Jabez decided to change focus. "Did you work with the rebels?" he asked the tin thrower, though the question was largely redundant. The answer was obvious, but if a connection could be established with this boy, however small, it might help to prevent him from doing something rash again.

"Only side there was to work for," he said proudly, thumping his chest. "Saiph Sarabande, by the way. And I, uh, heard about Captain Smithfield. Saw him at a rally, actually." Saiph took in a deep breath, blowing out his cheeks. "Sorry 'bout earlier."

Jabez wanted to say something in response, something that could solidify their connection, but he was interrupted by a whistle from Glass.

"Doth my ears deceive me? Didn't take you for the apology type, Sarabande."

"I give credit where credit is due, One. So don't be expecting anything from me anytime soon." Like the flick of a switch, Saiph's suspicions had jumped from Jabez to Glass. "And what side of the war were you on, huh? You don't look like much of a fighter. Were you a Capitol propaganda poster boy?"

Glass turned his head to look directly at Saiph. In the shade, his inky blue eyes looked black. "It'd be a smarter thing to admit to than being a rebel," he said. His tone had lost the mocking sarcasm, making way for a spiteful viciousness. "You two do realise what absolute idiots you are, right? Smithfield, you'd better hope your father isn't as big a deal as you say he is."

Jabez bristled. "Why?" he asked slowly, forcing the word to come out calm. A slight against himself was forgivable—understandable, even—but his pa was the bravest man he knew.

"Because the Capitol might not have known about him, and now you've gone and blurted it out for all to hear. You do know what they do with the kids of important rebels, right? They sure don't keep them in rundown camps like this one. Especially if they're known to follow in their parents' footsteps."

Saiph interrupted him with a rude noise, rolling his eyes. "And what would you know, street rat?"

"I know you both should have lied. Used a fake name at least. Now you're going to be in _trouble_." He trilled the last word in a perfect Capitol accent that made Jabez shiver. The boy was right, actually; he'd always thought the Capitol knew everything, and that was why he was here. It had never occurred to him the prisons could get worse, but of course they could. He was such an idiot.

"Unless . . ."

Jabez glanced back at Glass to find his brow furrowed in thought. His voice was back to normal, and his chest had deflated; he looked significantly more derisive than before. The look in his eyes was almost concerned.

"Unless," he repeated, more to himself than anyone else, "they already knew. Then we're all doomed."

Saiph rolled his eyes again at the dramatic whisper, but others weren't so dismissive. Baley, who had been quietly entertaining Minjae until now, stopped in the middle of a high-fiving game and turned to Glass

"What?" he asked, wrapping an arm around Minjae. "What do you mean we're doomed?"

"He's messing with you," Saiph said. "Ignore him."

"Oh, I'm being _very_ serious," Glass said, and the look in his eyes told Jabez he meant it. "We're supposed to be just refugees here. Refugees don't get the same treatment as rebels and war criminals. But if they're content with keeping you here . . ."

"They're going to punish us all the same way." Felix, unobserved by anyone, had risen again. He looked to genuinely be taking the younger boy seriously. Even Saiph had to pause at that.

In perfect synchrony, Felix and Glass looked towards the corner of the yard. The others followed their gazes until they came to rest on the small, unassuming camera fixed to the top of the wall, just beneath the crisscrossing bars that made up the ceiling of their pen.

And it was a pen. The conversations had almost fooled Jabez into thinking otherwise—it had been so long since he'd heard kids chat and bicker and act their age—but now there was no denying it. Whether the guards were present or not, whether there was anyone watching behind that lens or they'd truly been "abandoned", they were still under the Capitol's thumb. They might be free to interact now, but that meant nothing in the long run.

Jabez swallowed. His palms were wet again; he ran them over his jumpsuit again, but they didn't seem to dry.

This was still a punishment. He knew this now. And he was starting to realise too that this feeling more like a vacation right now would soon make it worse.

* * *

 _A soldier on my own, I don't know the way_  
 _I'm riding up the heights of shame_  
 _I'm waiting for the call, the hand on the chest_  
 _I'm ready for the fight and fate_

* * *

 _Note: Thank you for reading. Submissions have officially closed, though if you previously talked to me about submitting a tribute, I'll still accept one from you, but you must send in the form by this coming Thursday. A huge thank you to all who submitted - I received so many more tributes than I thought, especially this weekend, and I cannot wait to start writing from them. Here you see the first of the tribute point of view chapters - apologies, it was a bit rushed. My work schedule has been a bit hectic; in fact, I'm leaving for a five day training session beginning tomorrow, so there unfortunately will be no Tuesday update this week. I should, however, be fine for the Saturday update, and I hope to resume a more regular updating schedule after that. Thank you all very much for your patience._


	7. See the World Hanging Upside Down

_So come out of your cave walking on your hands_  
 _And see the world hanging upside down_  
 _You can understand dependence_  
 _When you know the maker's land_

* * *

Another day, another shower. Another attempt at taking a hot one, praying the water wouldn't be scalding this time. Another letdown, and another ten minutes standing under a freezing deluge. Then another two minutes spent at the mercifully warm washroom sinks, trying to restore some feeling into her fumbling fingers.

A typical routine on what Rust Sarabande knew should be anything but a typical day.

She leaned closer to the tap to splash some water on her face, washing away the beads of sweat newly formed across her brow. Enough—what was she, a child? Saiph didn't fear the unknown, and neither should she.

 _Often, for undaunted courage, fate spares the man it has not already marked._

The Capitol did not decide what happened to them. Fate did—and if she was brave enough, she could beat even that.

Her head rose again, and she was pleased to see a convincing look of determination in her narrowed eyes and set jaw. The rough, uneven layers of her short hair helped with badass warrior look she was going for; she was glad she'd opted to get as much chopped off as she could back when the guards actually cared about their prisoners' personal hygiene. Some of the girls had put up a fuss at the idea of parting with their already-grimy locks, and now their hair looked more akin to a curtain of knotted ropes. Not even the showers could help them, not when they had so little time.

It was a funny thing, how the girls here outnumbered the boys almost three to one. Rust knew there had been plenty more young males in the camp originally, but when the decision had come to separate the kids from the adults, they'd been carted off to different cellblocks. The girls had been shoved into their own respective jail, but there wasn't enough space for all of them; likewise with the boys, even though they had two whole buildings to themselves. So the extras had been forced into this old dump, where the plumbing hardly worked, and the cells were miniscule, and the yard was barely big enough for the six boys to enjoy, let alone the sixteen girls.

The guards didn't seem to care about the gender imbalance though; girls and boys alike got the same amount of time in the washrooms, which meant ten minute showers maximum for female prisoners so they could all have a turn before their half hour was up. Of course, one could take longer—at the risk of being thrown out entirely naked. Aside from the obvious humiliation, there was the constant threat of guards getting . . . handsy. Rust had seen it happen once or twice, and now she and every other girl had an internal clock programmed to tell exactly when half an hour had passed.

 _Twenty-five-thirty-six, twenty-five-thirty-seven . . ._

Rust left the sink for another girl to use and headed towards a newly unoccupied washroom stall. The girl who had exited, with bright blue eyes and a scowl that could kill, was already leaving the washroom, even though they weren't supposed to until exactly thirty minutes had passed.

Many paused to watch as the girl, whom Rust had dubbed "She-Wolf", stormed through the door. It swung shut behind her, closing with a _click_ , and didn't open again. They waited, but She-Wolf was not forced back through. Obviously, Rust supposed—there were no guards around to enforce the rules.

Did that mean they could stay in here as long as they wanted?

Maybe, but she'd rather not tempt fate. Sure, she'd stood on a table and shouted along with her cousin earlier, but that had been different. Saiph had been there. With him, she could stand up to anything, but without . . .

 _It must be believed that solitude can quickly destroy reason._

The quote, coming from one of her favourite novels, soothed Rust's nerves. After all, in that story, the characters had been stranded on an island, and had still had their happily ever after. Couldn't this cellblock count as their own sort of island? They'd all be fine, so long as they had a strong captain to guide them.

Saiph could fill that role. He was great at that sort of thing.

Thoughts of her cousin hastened Rust out of the washroom stall. If there were no guards, then could she talk with Saiph? They'd never had much opportunity before—at least, not without getting a kick to the gut for it—but now the soldiers were gone. If they didn't care about Saiph's thrown tin earlier, surely they wouldn't come barging in just because a few of them were talking.

Indeed, some of the others were already breaking that rule. A group of five girls who Saiph had jokingly labelled The Dolls because of their still-dazzling looks were already whispering amongst themselves by one of the shower stalls. None of them looked remotely alike, but they were as familiar with each other as sisters. One girl in particular seemed to be their leader; she didn't look to be the oldest, but her every feature exuded a quiet intensity that could probably whip even Saiph into following her. Her movements were controlled and graceful as she ushered the others towards the washroom doors.

 _Twenty-nine-oh-one, twenty-nine-oh-two—_ right, their time was almost up.

Rust followed The Dolls through the doors amidst a crowd of girls doing the same. Many rushed towards the yard, eager to lay in the sun and dry their damp jumpsuits, a side effect of living in a prison with no towels. Rust, however, hung back, looking instead towards the small group of boys making their way to the washroom. The familiar mop of bronze hair was impossible to miss.

"Saiph," she called, drawing his eyes to her. Immediately, his face lit up with that lopsided grin she knew so well.

"Cuz. Had a nice shower? You definitely needed it."

She rolled her eyes, but did clasp his outstretched hand by way of greeting. As soon as their fingers touched, both cousins slammed their free palms on top of their intertwined fists; Saiph, as always, got their first.

"Too slow again." He shook his head, chuckling. "Looks like you're a bit—"

"Don't you say it—"

"— _rusty_."

She slapped him on the shoulder, letting out a loud groan to hide her smile. Saiph had to use that one at least once a day, and, embarrassingly, it could still make her laugh. Something about him never failed to lighten the mood, no matter the circumstances. Already she felt the earlier tensions leave her, and inwardly berated herself for ever worrying in the first place.

"So, no guards, no beatings, no rules." She grinned. "Whatever shall we get up to?"

"Well, I'm going to take a shower before the door locks on me," Saiph said, glancing towards the washroom where the other boys had disappeared. "Meet up after?"

"What am I supposed to do in the meantime?"

"Enjoy the sun? I hear it can be quite nice if you manage to see it between the bars."

"Ha, ha."

The sarcasm in her tone fell flat. There was a nagging concern in the back of her mind preventing her from fully relaxing.

"What did you do out there without the guards? You could talk amongst each other, right?" Already, she could hear voices in the yard of the girls chatting with each other. It made her . . . not nervous, exactly, not when her life was so full of bigger concerns, but the thought nevertheless did nothing to thrill her. "Was it awkward?"

"As all hell." Saiph winked, and when she didn't smile, clapped a hand on her back. "Ah, Rusty, you'll be fine. Make some friends! Just think how proud Aunt A would be."

Her mother _had_ always encouraged her to talk more with other kids her age—and "encouraged" was putting it lightly. She'd never understood how her daughter could find more in common with fictional characters than living, breathing people, but those in books made _sense_. Books were easy to read, and the girls her age were anything but.

Still, they were all district citizens; surely being on the same side of the war meant something. And besides, heroes never took down the villains alone. If they wanted to beat the Capitol, they had to unite.

"All right," Rust said, cracking a grin. "I suppose I know not all that may be coming, but be it what it will, I'll go to it laughing."

"That's the spirit," Saiph said, giving her another pat before he made for the washroom door. "Oh, and _Moby Dick_!" he called back, just as she'd begun to feel the glow of pride from scoring a point. "You'll have to do better than that to beat me, Rusty!"

"I'm already beating you!" she answered, laughing. "Fifty-four to twelve, remember?"

"That's what I want you to think!"

She shook her head, smiling at her cousin's ridiculousness as he closed the door behind her. Saiph was smart, and well-read, but he hadn't grown up around books like she had. More often than not, he missed the quotes she slipped into their conversations, and it had put him embarrassingly far behind her in their game.

What they were playing for, or even how many points constituted as "winning", they'd never discussed. The few Rust had explained the game to had never understood, which might have been why Saiph was one of her only close friends to date.

She could change that now, though. In the interest of uniting against the Capitol.

 _All for one and one for all,_ Rust thought as she stepped towards the yard. _United we stand, divided we fall._

For they were divided. That was evident from one look outside. The girls were either alone or in cliques, remaining with those they knew and no one else. A group of five here, a group of three there, some alone in the corners like they wished they could melt away; no one was approaching each other, as though they all had some sort of horribly contagious disease.

Rust had been guilty of this too, once upon a time. She didn't even know anyone's name besides Saiph's. They were only She-Wolf, and The Dolls, and the Sister Twister for the two girls who were supposedly related but had been giving each other the cold shoulder since their first day in the camp. Then there were Brawns and Brains, the girls from 3. Two of them were clearly tall and strong, and the third, while the idea of "looking smart" was subjective, gave off the impression that there was a library of knowledge locked just behind her amber eyes.

Add to that Red, Jumpy, Teen Mom and the baby, and Rust was already feeling overwhelmed. Saiph had it easy; there were so few boys to deal with. She had a whole armada before her, and while the nicknames and stories she'd made up for the surrounding girls had been fun, actually getting to know them was a whole other task. Inventing wild and ridiculous histories for the prisoners was nice because it made them seem special, and by default, she could pretend she was special as well. No one would lock her up in a prison with spies, harem girls, ex-criminals, and war heroes unless she was one of their ilk.

In reality, she knew the stories these girls hid likely weren't so exciting. A dead relative here, a horror story from the war there—they were too real. Rust didn't want to face that reality.

But Saiph had managed it, or something like it, with the boys. She could do it too.

She _had_ to do it too.

The least intimidating to approach was definitely Red, who sat alone to the left of the door. She looked to be about Rust's age, and with their hair tinted similar shades of copper, they could almost have been sisters, except Rust had eyes the colour of mud while the girl's were a dreamy green-grey currently staring right at her.

Rust paused at Red's wide-eyed stare, then mentally slapped herself. Of course—this was the girl who'd begged Saiph not to get them into trouble right before he'd thrown the oatmeal at the camera. The way Rust was being watched now, it was clearly expected she'd do something equally rash.

Her course didn't change; in fact, the girl's expression only strengthened Rust's desire to speak with her. She told herself it was because she had to change Red's mind about her, Saiph, and standing up to the Capitol. Deeper down, however, it was just nice to see someone looking more worried than she felt. Bravery was easier to achieve when you were standing next to someone so scared.

"Hi," she said, stepping in front of Red and squatting so she was just a bit taller than her level. Rust extended her hand, trying to give the girl the same easy smile that came so naturally to Saiph. "Rust Sarabande."

Red flinched, but politely took Rust's hand nonetheless. "Calla Ayers," she murmured, shaking once before dropping her hand immediately, as though something disgusting had been smeared across Rust's palm.

"Calla," Rust repeated, trying out the new name. So much for Red . "I think we might have gotten off on the wrong foot."

Calla frowned, puzzled. "Just now?"

"Earlier. With my cousin throwing the food."

"Oh."

Rust had guessed right; a flash of fear crossed Calla's face. But something more appeared in her eyes—they narrowed and hardened, as if she was upset.

Of course—the girl was thin as a wheat stalk, more affected by malnourishment than could have ever been caused by the prison camp. Rust had seen this same look on the boy who had scolded Saiph for wasting food. Now that she thought about it, she understood; being the daughter of a bookshop owner in a district largely made up of illiterate tillers and croppers, she was no stranger to hungry nights.

"I'm sorry about Saiph's behaviour. He is a great guy, really." Rust smiled. "Just a bit, er, passionate."

Someone snorted. Not Calla, but the girl sitting not too far away from her: Brains, from 3. At least she had the decency to turn red when she realised her reaction had been heard.

"Apologies," she said smoothly as Rust turned her way. "But there is passion, and then there is lunacy. Openly challenging the Capitol, I believe, falls into the latter category."

Rust narrowed her eyes. For all she knew, Brains wasn't openly trying to sound arrogant; Rust had met a few Threes in her lifetime, and she found they all spoke in the same eloquent, slightly patronising tone. Still, that didn't make it any less irritating.

Her temper calmed when a smart response came to her, replacing the scathing retort she'd had in mind. "Perhaps a lunatic is simply a minority of one," she said nonchalantly, inwardly smiling to herself at the quote no one would get.

Brains paused, one eyebrow rising. "Comparing your cousin's little spat to _Nineteen Eighty-Four_? Bit presumptuous, don't you think?"

Rust was so startled, she could hardly fumble for a response. "Um . . . you, you know the book?"

"Obviously—it's a classic. Although I'm surprised you do too," Brains said, tilting her head as if to re-evaluate Rust. "I didn't imagine Nine as being a particularly literate district."

There was something not unlike respect creeping into her tone, but it did little to lessen the condescension of her words. Ignoring the thought of finding another book-looking kindred spirit, Rust resumed her glare. "Well, we are. My father happened to run Nine's most profitable bookshop."

And only bookshop, but Brains didn't have to know that.

"In fact," she continued, just because the other girl looked so surprised, it was annoying, "We had more than just normal books. I've read the _original versions,_ before the Capitol rewriters got to them. You think you know _Nineteen Eighty-Four_? I bet you'd be surprised to find out the book's not actually about falling in love with the Capitol."

This time, it was Brains who got her feathers ruffled. "Of course it's not. I've read the original too."

"Are you sure?"

" _O cruel, needless misunderstanding! O stubborn, self-willed exile from the loving breast!_ " Brains recited flawlessly." _Two gin-scented tears trickled down the sides of his nose. But it was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. He had won the victory over himself. He loved Big Brother._ "

Well, that was the ending of the original, all right. In the Capitol's version, Big Brother had been rechristened "The President", a not-so-subtle nod to Panem's leader. Disappointment popped the balloon of pride in Rust's chest, until she realised she was sitting opposite a girl who actually shared her interests.

All previous irritation was forgotten. Rust left Calla behind to scoot closer to Brains, an eager smile on her face that only Saiph could usually draw from her.

"Wow. Where did you get a copy of the original?" She paused, wracking her brain for any prior memory of this blonde, amber-eyed girl. "Did you get one from the rebels?"

"What? No. We had one in our library."

"Libraries in Three are allowed to carry originals? Ugh, I'm so jealous. They must be _huge_. What are they like? How many books do they have? Are they always originals?"

Rust was aware she was starting to babble, but she couldn't help it. Books were a passion her father had passed on to her, and all her life she'd waited for someone her own age to discuss them with. Her cousin had been wonderful, of course, but after he'd lost his mother, Saiph's interest in stories had dwindled. He hadn't read a new book in years, and his score in their quote game showed it.

Brains raised a hand to halt Rust's barrage of questions, looking more than a bit overwhelmed. "Look, I don't know what Three's libraries actually are like," she said hurriedly, as though worried Rust would interrupt with another stream of inquiries. "I was closer to Nine's border, on a big ranch house out of the cities."

She lived close to 9? Even better! But . . . "What library did you go to, then?"

"Our own."

Rust stared at her. "You had your own library? In your house?"

"Yes," Brains replied, hesitant this time. Their conversation was beginning to attract more than a few eavesdroppers, including the two girls that formed the Sister Twister.

"Wow," said the younger of the pair, drawing out the single syllable. She sounded less impressed and more suspicious than anything. "Fancy. We didn't even have anything like that back in One."

"It was a small library," Brains added quickly. When no one looked any less curious, she continued, "And my mother was a literature historian. It was her job, rescuing old books from before the Great Devastation. The library was her work, it was hardly for pleasure."

"But you got to read the books anyways." Rust was leaning forward on her knees, fingers tapping excitedly across her thigh. She hardly cared if having a personal library made Brains rich or a snob or whatever else the girl from 1 was thinking—if there were stories to tell, it didn't matter.

"Well, yes," Brains said with a furtive glance at those still looking skeptical. "Only a couple, though. Really, it was more of a bookshelf than a library."

"That's still brilliant! What have you read? I personally love _The Mysterious Island_ , but anything fantastical will do. Or science fiction. Or books about the times before the Great Devastation. Or—"

"Anything that takes you away from Panem?"

Rust stopped short. Brains was, well, as intelligent as her nickname suggested.

"Yeah." She sighed, deflating just a bit. Stories were always a great escape until you remembered why you were escaping.

 _But then, what is life but one great story? Why read others when you could pick up the pen yourself?_

That was a quote from one of the few enjoyable Post-GD works written by Capitol authors. The whimsical _Found and Lost and Found Again_ had been published with the hidden intention of pushing those in the districts who read to stop wasting their time and go make something of their lives, preferably by working for the Capitol. Yet Rust had loved it anyways. And, despite the nature of the propaganda, was there not a grain of truth to it?

Maybe it was time for her to stop pining for the stories she'd once had.

Maybe it was time to make her own.

She smiled at Brains again, not the same enthusiastic one as before, but a smaller one that meant something deeper. "You know, I haven't actually introduced myself," she said, extending a hand. "Rust Sarabande."

The girl didn't jump to be polite and shake, as Calla had. Instead, she took in every inch of Rust's form, evaluating her up and down. It was intimidating, but Rust kept her eyes up and her hand in place, waiting for Brains to make a decision. When she finally did, it felt like a much greater victory than winning over anyone else would have been.

"Thalia Silverlake," Brains-now-Thalia said, taking Rust's hands. "Good to meet a fellow book lover."

"Likewise. So, favourite book?"

Rust smiled as Thalia began to describe books even she had never read. From the sounds of it, the rebels could really have used someone with her mind and resources. So many Pre-GD works and history books held themes of revolution that could have spurred the rebels on had they gotten the chance to read them. Rust had done her best with Saiph to spread their stories, but with Thalia's help, they could have done so much more.

But they still could. Rust, warm from the glow of making her first non-related friend, was already thinking up plans for the future. With she and Saiph and Thalia working together, she was certain there was nothing they couldn't do. This time, it wouldn't be characters, but _they_ who would be the heroes. _They_ who would defeat the villainous Capitol and earn everyone their happily ever afters.

Fate had placed them in this prison, but courage would carry them through. Their ends were not yet written.

* * *

 _And I'll find strength in pain_  
 _And I will change my ways_  
 _I'll know my name as it's called again_

* * *

 _Note: Thank you for reading. Don't be alarmed if you character hasn't been mentioned much as of yet, especially if they're female. There are plenty more girls than boys, and they're all appearing once rather than through individual reapings, so I am trying to break the introductions up by only focusing on a few characters at a time to hopefully help with the early confusion. Some characters, particularly the outgoing ones, will also happen to pop up more often than others. I'll do my best to give everyone's characters the time and development they deserve, but I will also try to write an engaging story, which means sometimes characters who aren't as active won't be focused on as much. Thank you all for understanding._

 _One additional note, there was an error in the last chapter in which Chia called the baby Chia. The baby's name is Camila (or Cammie as it is now in the chapter), and the older girl is Chia. Please forgive the error, the last chapter was written in a rush and wasn't edited before it was posted._


	8. Red Eyes

_Frequency's so low_  
 _Heart on a string_  
 _A string that only plays solos_  
 _Rain made of echoes_  
 _Tidal wave rushing on and on_

* * *

The routine was nice. After all the fear caused by this morning's announcement, it was reassuring to have something normal to fall back on. Half an hour in the shower, half an hour in the yard. Follow the rules and you won't get hurt.

Except Calla hadn't followed the rules, not exactly. But then, what should she have done? The girl with the golden brown eyes, Rust Sarabande, _she_ had been the one to approach Calla to talk. It would have been impolite to ignore her. Would the guards understand?

No, of course they wouldn't. But then, they didn't seem all that concerned at the moment.

 _And that's thirty minutes,_ Calla thought, just as the beautiful group of girls in the corner of the yard rose and headed for the door. Rust didn't notice, caught up in her conversation with the blonde girl from 3, but most of the others followed the group's lead, and Calla did the same. There might not have been any guards at the moment, but she knew they couldn't be gone forever. Whenever it was that they did come back, she had to make sure they had no cause to be displeased with her. Ignoring the Capitol's rules only resulted in pain.

Pain and death.

She shook her dead, biting her lip to keep any sounds from escaping. These random bursts of tears _had_ to stop. She was almost eighteen now—or had her birthday already passed?

Either way, it was time to grow up. She couldn't be the little sister anymore.

That thought worsened the stinging in her eyes, but fortunately, there were other things going on in the cellblock to pull her attention. It was hard to stay in her own head once she'd become acutely aware of the large crowd surrounding her.

The leader of the group of girls, a beautiful young woman with dark skin and cropped hair that somehow still gleamed in the light, had stopped short. Everyone behind her, including Calla, followed her lead. Across the room, the six boys had exited the washroom and were likewise frozen.

Calla was so caught up in realising just how many kids filled the cellblock that it took a moment for her to understand why they'd come to a standstill. Of course—the amount of people was overwhelming because Calla had so rarely seen them all in one place. Usually the guards ushered them out as soon as their hour for hygiene and leisure was finished, where they'd be led to the camp's makeshift farm to tend the meagre fields of grain and potatoes. Calla had hated it—the bugs, the dirt under her nails, the constant crouching and standing and crouching—but at least it had been familiar. That routine had stopped about three weeks ago, as near as she could guess. After that, they'd only received the occasional visit from guards, lasting just long enough to get them some food and water so they didn't drop dead.

Finally, today, after so long, there had been hints of things returning to normal, barring the ominous voice over the intercom. But now they were showered and sunbathed, ready to get to work, and there was no one to lead them anywhere. The cellblock door remained resolutely shut.

Calla should have known Saiph Sarabande would be the first to move. She cringed as he stepped out of the line of boys, bracing herself for his renewed shouts, but surprisingly, he remained silent. All he did was stride confidently over to the nearest table and take a seat.

That, in itself, was a terrible act of rebellion. They weren't supposed to use the tables unless they were eating. Saiph would be whipped if the guards entered now.

They didn't; instead, Rust Sarabande also moved, bringing her new friend from 3 along with her. Calla watched them join Saiph with wide eyes, her hands trembling as others began to follow their lead. The children from 1, the other girls from 3—no, no, no! Didn't they realise how dangerous this was? Didn't they realise they could lose each other in the blink of an eye for these meaningless acts?

At least the younger ones had the sense to be afraid. Calla watched the blue-eyed siblings march up the stairs towards a cell, the girl dragging the boy behind her. Another young teen, the one who carried the baby everywhere she went, was hurriedly ushering her six-year-old brother into their own room.

Then Calla looked to him, her gaze alighting on his tall frame and grey-blue eyes, as calm as the surface of an undisturbed pond.

Jabez Smithfield, she remembered. Her brother had told her about him, when they'd first gotten on the train. _See that boy there?_ Arum had said, pointing him out in the crowded train car. _He's with the rebels. If something happens . . ._ He'd paused, fiddling with the top button of his guard's uniform. _And me and the others have to go out and fight, you follow him. He's Captain Smithfield's son, he'll know what to do._

Manuel Smithfield had been well-regarded in 6; Arum had always gushed about him, the simple livestock transportation assistant who'd had the courage to ride the trains through every district spreading the word of the rebels. His support, and that of other similar rebels, was what finally got the massive District 6 to unite and pick a side. Arum had never worked too closely with the rebellion for fear of leaving her, but he'd heard all the stories of Captain Smithfield, and, later, his son when he arrived in 6.

 _He'll know what to do._

Right now, Jabez stood up on the second floor balcony, arms folded as he leaned against the corner of a cell doorway. He watched the rebels below him not quite from the confines of the bars that held them prisoner, but he was close, enough to slip inside if the guards did happen to show themselves. A safe act of rebellion. A smart one.

Calla almost joined him. Almost, until her feet stopped moving and she remembered what happened when she tried to disobey the Capitol. People got hurt. People _died._ Was she really going to curse this cellblock's best choice for a leader?

In answer, she hurried back to her own cell by the yard door. No, no, _no._ She wouldn't let that happen again. She _couldn't._ She'd just sit here, on her cot, hands folded politely in her lap, and wait for the Capitol's instructions. No one could get hurt if she did nothing.

Oh, how well-trained the Capitol had her. Wasn't she the model citizen? Too afraid of the repercussions to make anything of her life.

The old her was stirring again. The loud, creative dreamer who'd thought that, at ten, the world was hers to mold. Back before the war, she'd smuggle mud back home from the track construction sites, and then she'd sit at their rickety table well into the night, pounding and smoothing the fake clay into small, horrid monuments Arum had never stopped saying were beautiful. She would give him a beaming grin, clap her dirt-streaked hands together, and dream of the days when she would be a teenager, old enough to be mature, young enough to set a record as a Panem-renowned artist.

How disgusted she would have been with herself, to see what she had become. How disgusted she _was_ —Calla was all too aware of the disappointment she'd turned into.

Worse than a disappointment. She'd turned into a murderer.

Her fingernails dug into the mattress. She shook her head, hair whipping at her eyes and drawing forth tears.

 _An accident, an accident, it was an accident._

The mantra didn't help. It never did, because what was done was still done, no matter the intention. Arum was still dead, eye caved in, face painted red, bullet gleaming in the nest of his brain because she . . . _she . . ._

 _No, no, no._

But the image was stuck. All she could see, eyes closed or open, was her brother's mangled head. The memory invaded her ears too, filling them with the sound of his last cries, and then her nose, with the stench of his blood splattered all across her dress.

The tears were pouring freely now, no longer due to any pain from her hair, or her fingernails now plunged into her biceps. She'd wrapped her arms around herself, like a hug she might have gotten from her family, but now this was the best she could do because she'd killed them, _all_ of them. Mother too, and probably Father as well, and definitely, definitely her kind-eyed brother who'd only wanted to keep her safe.

She was a jinx. A living Grim Reaper, sending souls to the afterlife with just a touch. And if the others weren't careful, then—

"Hey."

Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. There was a girl standing in her cell's doorway. Tall and sinewy, with eyes as hard as hazelnuts, she was one of the 3 girls; Ardelia, Calla knew, only because it had struck her as an oddly flowery name for a girl who looked like she could snap a smaller kid in two. Calla wasn't afraid of Ardelia now, though; it was what she was capable of that worried her.

"I'm fine," she said before the girl could get another word in. The mattress creaked as she turned away, coughing as though that could mask her sobs.

"You're crying." There was little sympathy in the statement; it was a mere fact to Ardelia, whose only detectable emotion was a slight uncomfortableness. _Then please, let her move on,_ Calla begged, but she only continued, "Did something hurt you?"

"No." Calla wiped her eyes, took a deep breath, and turned back to face her. She tried for a smile that didn't quite work with her trembling lips. "A-Allergies."

The stutter in her voice helped nothing. In the doorway, Ardelia rubbed her hands on her jumpsuit, looking anywhere but Calla's tearstained face. Maybe she'd felt an ounce of concern at first, but now she seemed to wish she was anywhere but here. Certainly she was nothing like Arum, who would have had his arm around the sobbing person's shoulders in an instant. He'd have started with a quiet joke, to distract them, and then he'd whisper that everything would be all right, and he'd stroke their back softly, and he'd hold their head close to his chest—and now Calla was crying even harder.

Ardelia's lip twitched as Calla buried her face in her knees, but though it was her mouth Calla had seen open, it wasn't her voice that next reached her ears.

"Calla? You okay?"

Her cheeks burned; she sunk low into the mattress, as if somehow she could pass through it and into the ground, far away from those approaching. Ardelia's intervention had attracted the attention of one of her fellow Threes, Rust's friend, who had of course in turn led Rust to noticing her. Now the 9 girl was coming nearer, her cousin at her back, while all around the main room, people turned to stare at Calla's cell. Even Jabez had come down from the balcony to see what was going on.

"I'm fine," Calla squeaked, scooting away on the bed until her back hit the wall. There were so many eyes on her, like she was an attraction on display. "I'm really fine."

Rust gave her a small, disbelieving smile. "Come on. It's all right. You don't have to be scared."

She could only shake her head in response. Rust's line of thinking was obvious, but it wasn't true; she was thinking far too highly of Calla. Rust only assumed she was afraid, not that she was a curse and a murderer who would get them all killed.

"There aren't any guards around." Now her cousin had started as Calla's sobs renewed. Saiph, the rebel, the shouter, who spoke with a light-hearted flippancy her brother had once had. "No one's going to hurt you."

"But I'm going to hurt them!" she choked out, because she couldn't stand it any longer. The two of them were standing side by side, practically a brother and a sister, and she knew how that ended. "All of you, I . . . I'm going to get you all killed. I get _everyone_ killed."

The siblings—no, cousins—exchanged glances. Rust stepped forward, into her cell, a curious frown on her face.

"Calla, I'm sure that's not true. Just come out and join us, these bars are probably messing with your head—"

"No!" Calla shied away from the outstretched hand, as though taking it would seal Rust's fate. Her cheeks were flaming at the thought of how embarrassing this was, causing such a scene in front of everyone, but she couldn't get enough of a handle on her emotions to stop. Like a tap twisted too far, she'd let all her memories come pouring out, and it was impossible to bottle them back up.

"Calla . . ." Rust sat on the edge of the bed, drawing another flinch from her. "What is this about?"

"We can't leave the cells." The words came out in a moan, her mind already conjuring up violent consequences. "We _can't_ break their rules. Then he'll die."

Rust tensed when Calla pointed at her cousin, but it wasn't Saiph Sarabande that stood in the doorway. It was Arum, Arum with his face caved in and his leg gushing blood where she, _she_ had shot him.

She'd only wanted to help. To fight the Capitol, just as she'd always been so proud of him doing.

In the smoke of the train wreck, every silhouette looked the same. Fighting children looked like trained warriors. And Capitol soldiers chasing you might only be your brother making sure you were getting away safe.

"Your brother." Her words were stained with salt as she curled into a ball and wept.

She hadn't meant to kill him—hadn't meant to kill anyone. She'd aimed for the leg, like Arum had taught her once, but the Capitol had had no use for a prisoner who couldn't walk.

" _My_ brother," she corrected herself, glancing back up at the gathered crowd peering through the bars. Her throat closed even further at the sight of them all, but she had to make them understand. She'd once wished to make an impact with her art, but now she could only offer them advice.

"Arum, he . . . I . . . I _killed_ him." She buried her face back in her hands. There were no more tears now, only deep, wracking gasps. "I got him killed because I tried to fight. But we _can't._ Or everyone we love—brothers, mothers, fathers . . . I killed them _all_."

Over the sound of her heaving breaths, she could just hear the concerned murmurs drifting amongst the others. It wasn't the fear they should have had though, she knew; her words had unsettled them, but only because they were misinterpreting her meaning. She couldn't even explain properly. They probably all thought she was a murderer.

Well, what did it matter? She _was_.

The bedsprings creaked as a weight left it. Good—Rust was leaving, getting as far from her as possible. She seemed like a nice girl, and she had a cousin she loved like a brother; neither of them deserved to fall under Calla's curse.

So when she felt the arm around her shoulders, she gasped and pulled away. Hadn't she warned them enough of what a danger she was? She couldn't let them throw their lives away for her, not like so many had before.

She moved to push the person away, but when her hands found their chest, she realised it was a boy sitting at her side, not Rust. Her heart stopped at the thought of Saiph, of all people, comforting her, yet the voice that spoke was low and calm, carrying none of the rebel boy's ferocity.

"I understand."

 _Jabez?_ she thought, but no; this boy was taller, wider in the shoulders, and his body curved around her when she sunk her head into his chest, carrying none of the rigidity she'd come to see in Captain Smithfield's son. He'd never looked like the touchy-feely type, though neither had any of the other boys in the cellblock.

. . . _Arum?_

It was a foolish thought, and only brought more tears to her eyes, but she couldn't help it. The boy she clung to felt so familiar, his touch, his voice, even his scent somehow reminded her of the home she'd never stop aching for.

 _Of course. Not Arum._ She looked up into shimmering silver eyes the colour of hubcaps, and she knew. Felix Twisp, the only one from 6 who hadn't been separated into a different cellblock. They'd never spoken, but a silent bond had formed between them, back when they'd been working on the prison camp's railway. They'd been the only two who'd had any inkling of what they were doing, though Felix had known much more than her. He'd help her on occasion, never speaking a word, but always, _always_ reminding her of Arum.

Looking at him up close, she could see he looked nothing like her brother; his hair was dark, nose upturned, a faint scar on his bottom lip. But the kindness in his face was the same, and the way he held her, and the softness in his voice as he asked, "Lost your family?"

Her choked sob was all the response he needed. His fingers gently squeezed her shoulder as he leaned back against the cell wall, eyes closing and arms pulling her close.

"I know," he said, then all but whispered, "Me too."

It was as though he'd given her permission to break down. She felt no shame in grabbing his jumpsuit like a terrified child, burying her face in his chest to release tears she couldn't believe she still had in her. It didn't even matter anymore that there were still a dozen kids watching outside their cell. At this moment, only she and the boy beside her existed, the boy who kept his face stoic but who she could feel trembling, the boy who said his name was Felix but felt so much like another.

 _Arum,_ she thought, and perhaps wailed aloud as well, _I need you. It's all my fault, but I-I can't keep doing this without you._

Cellblock 74's routine, it seemed, had returned. After their hour of rest, they were punished by being forced to work for the Capitol, and really, what was this but another form of punishment?

All Calla needed was to be left alone with her memories. That was more torture than the warden's whip could ever cause.

* * *

 _And under the water you scream so loud but the silence surrounds you_  
 _But I hear it loud and you fall in the deep and I'll always find you_  
 _If my red eyes don't see you anymore_  
 _And I can't hear you through the white noise_

* * *

 _Note: Thank you for reading. Your feedback has been wonderful, and I'm delighted to see everyone enjoying the story so far. Please forgive the slow pacing; as this is the "first" Hunger Games, it'd be difficult to write the jump to violence quickly while keeping the characters realistic and true to their forms, so I'm opting for a series of less action-packed, shorter chapters to start things off. It will hopefully also help you to get acquainted with the tributes, as there are no reapings to formally introduce them._

 _On the subject of introducing the tributes, as one reviewer pointed out, physical appearances can occasionally help distinguish characters. I've seen other SYOTs create websites for their stories; would it help if I did this as well? I do have a document with images of what I believe each tribute looks like (in some cases, I received pictures with the forms), so if it would help others, I can create a website, hopefully for next Saturday, for you to view the tributes._


	9. Standing Tall

_It's all the same, only the names will change_  
 _Everyday it seems we're wasting away_  
 _Another place where the faces are so cold_  
 _I'd drive all night just to get back home_

* * *

All day, every door in the cellblock had remained open. The yard, the washrooms—yet no one dared go near them. After Calla's unnerving breakdown, few had even dared to remain at the tables, retreating instead to the confines of their cells.

Saiph Sarabande was one of the few who remained outside the bars. From here, he could see almost everyone, as well as out into the yard through the open door. His unfocused gaze had remained on the opening for some time, but he hadn't truly registered what he was seeing until the sun shone straight into his eyes.

He turned his head away, blinking furiously. _Ow. Fuck._

Even here, his gaze wasn't safe. The cellblock was made almost entirely of white walls and metal furniture; light was reflecting everywhere, causing everyone to shift and squint. No one would do anything about it though, of course. They were all too scared to so much as move.

Rolling his eyes, Saiph rose, strode towards the yard door, and made to slam it shut. It was only when his hand touched the sun-warmed metal that he realised he'd . . . actually never had a chance to enjoy a sunset before. Not from here, anyways. Usually they worked well into the night.

Then it truly hit him. The sun was setting. The day was ending, their first day free of any interference by the Capitol guards, and yet they'd still wasted away the hours moping in their cells.

Damn, the Sixes had done a number on them.

Calla's words had been more than enough to set anyone on edge, but after Felix had stepped in, it had all gone to shit. Everyone had been expecting him to comfort her, and by extension, them; instead, he'd practically encouraged her tears, stating he too had lost family. Of course, most if not everyone else had as well, and you could bet that was now all that was on their minds now.

The two girls from One were sitting in a cell back to back, eyes downcast but closer than they had ever been. Off in a corner, the girl with the crazy glint to her eyes was glaring at everything that passed in front of her, silent tears pouring down her face. Meanwhile, the one with the baby was openly sobbing, as was her brother, for no reason other than the older kids looked sad and he didn't know why.

So yeah, they'd all lost someone. Saiph had too. Only he didn't get sad. He didn't _mope._ His cheeks burned and his fists clenched and he was _mad._ Despair paralysed you; fury moved you forward.

Kay had taught him that. Every time he'd seen tears in her eyes after some neighbour made a snide comment his young mind could barely process, she'd made sure to pull him aside and tell him Sarabandes didn't get sad, they got angry and they got shit done. She wasn't hurt by the old folks on their street; she hated them, and that would spur her on to prove she could be as mature and responsible as any of them, no matter her lack of husband, no matter the age at which she'd had her son.

Once again, she was filling his thoughts. A mother who was more like a sister. More than that, she . . . she had been his best—

 _No. Enough of that._ Saiph had wasted most of the day as was.

"This is ridiculous," he said, returning to his seat at one of the table. "I reckon we have enough tears here to make an ocean. We could pretend we made it to Four after all."

He smirked, nudging the girl still on the stool beside him.

Rust didn't even look up.

 _Come on, Rusty._ She was the only person he wouldn't berate for moping, even though he hated to see her do it as much as anyone else. Especially when he had no idea to snap her out of it. As far as the two of them knew, her parents were still fine back in 9. Did she just miss them? Was she still sad about Kay? Or was it her new friend making her feel this way—Thalia What's-Her-Name, who had quietly excused herself after Calla's outburst to go and sit as far away from the cells as possible, her head in her hands. Rust did occasionally glance her way; worse, though, were the looks Saiph caught her giving him, full of grief and pity and all other things he didn't want to consider.

He tried for another smile, half-genuine when an idea hit him. "Rusty, please. Consider anything, only don't cry."

It wasn't an obvious quote, but those were her favourites. She'd appreciate the challenge.

Except he received nothing in response.

"Crying is all right in its way while it lasts. But you have to stop sooner or later, and then you still have to decide what to do."

Still complete silence on her part.

"Get busy living or get busy dying. To be or not to be. Come on, Rusty. Rust. _Rust_."

"Huh?" Finally, the firmness in his tone had gotten her attention. She blinked, lifting her chin off her palms to meet his eye. "Did you say something?"

"Only four supremely obvious quotes that you couldn't even guess. Better watch out—I'm catching up to you. What's the score now?"

"Fifty-four to sixteen," she said absent-mindedly, already returning her gaze to the table.

"You watch, I'll have you beat before you know it." He put as much arrogance as he could stomach into the words, knowing Rust wouldn't hesitate to knock him down a peg.

If the circumstances were normal, that is. Yet they were anything but, and it seemed his usual jokes weren't going to get him anywhere this time.

"Rusty," he said, tone softer now. "Being sad's not going to help anything. Uncle B and Aunt A are fine."

She sighed. "I know that. But that's the point, isn't it? I've still got both my parents, while all these kids . . . Do you think anyone here has an intact family?"

Judging from everyone's expressions, no, but telling Rust that wouldn't help matters. "That doesn't mean you have to mourn for them. They're not characters, Rusty, they're people and they can do that themselves."

"I wish they were characters," she whispered, eyes flitting from face to face, taking in each frown. "Then I'd know they have a happy ending coming their way."

He hated the way she looked at him last, as though Kay's death had sealed his miserable fate. So what if he'd lost her? It didn't matter. He'd had six years to get over it, and he'd really only needed a few hours. Not even that. Sarabandes didn't get sad, and they sure as hell didn't grieve. Her death was only useful to think about if he needed an extra dose of anger in his fight against the Capitol.

It _didn't_ matter.

"Well, we have to make our own happy endings." He'd meant to sound nonchalant, but it came out a lot more bitter than he'd hoped. "Life's not a story, Rust."

If she noticed the change in his tone, she didn't mention it. "I wish it was," was all she said, chin resting back on her palms, as if her head's weight had become too much to hold up.

The change happened in an instant. Suddenly, her head was snapping back up, eyes lit with a new eagerness as she whirled around on her stool to face him. "You should tell a story!"

"What?"

"You're right—we need to make our own happy ending, and we can't do that if we're all crying in separate corners. But you can bring everyone together!"

"What the hell makes you say that?"

"You've done it before with the messengers. I'd say give these kids the same speech, but I think a story might work better than playing the patriotism card on non-revolutionaries." Her eyes drifted to Calla's cell, snapping back the moment Saiph shook his head.

"You know more stories than I do. I haven't told one in years, Rust."

"Then it's a good thing you were born with the talent, or you might have forgotten it." Her grin was teasing, but her eyes held genuine awe, the same look he still remembered from when he was eight and she was seven and the world had still been whole. "I'm rubbish at telling stories. You're Silver-Tongued Saiph."

There was a nickname he hadn't heard since he was a kid, and his response to it was still the same: sticking out his very normal tongue at the speaker.

Rust giggled. "Come on, Silver-Tongue. You always used to tell me stories."

"Until you were old enough to read your own."

"Confession time: I was always old enough to read my own. I just liked the way you told them."

That . . . made a lot of sense. Hadn't Rust always helped him with the bigger words when he read her storybooks aloud? And he'd been cocky enough to think he was doing her a favour. What an idiot he was.

The realisation wasn't a huge blow to his ego though; how could it be, when Rust was still staring at him with such enthusiasm? Her expression tickled old memories from before the war, when they'd both run around with equally beaming grins at the thought of her father getting a new shipment of books. He used to love them as much as she had.

The past six years had taught him better. He'd worked tirelessly to spread Old World novels of rebellion across Panem in the hopes of setting a spark in those less inclined to rebel, but the results had still been the same. Life wasn't a fairytale; the Capitol had beaten them, one by one. His childhood naiveté, broken when Kay had died, had turned to dust after 13 had been blown off the map.

But Rust, somehow, still had hers intact. To be seventeen and still believe good could prevail was a gift—one he would protect with his life. He'd worried Calla's warnings had shattered his cousin, but of course Rust was as strong as before. And if a story could keep her smiling, well, so be it.

"All right, fine." He huffed, playing up his reluctance to hide the growing eagerness in his chest. Saiph hadn't realised it, but he . . . sort of wanted to do this. "Shall I regale you with the tale of Darren District taking on an entire Capitol battalion? Or Thirteen's triumphant survival, aka how the Capitol was stupid enough to nuke their own city?"

"Maybe something a little less . . . rebellious," Rust said with another glance in Calla's direction. "Just, you know, for now. Keep it neutral. Maybe don't talk about the war."

But all the stories he'd kept up with were of the same subject. Little else had interested him since Kay's death. He'd read other books and heard others tell tales when he was younger, but those were distant memories. Besides, happy endings might have the opposite effect Rust wanted, only reminding everyone of how dismal their lives were in comparison. He needed something to take their minds off the sadness entirely, something funny, no, hilarious, and groan-worthy, that would make them laugh and roll their eyes and completely forget about anything else.

Oh . . . oh yes, he had something.

"All right," he said, rising from his seat. "But I'll need you for sound effects."

"Sound effects?" Rust watched him clamber onto the table, frowning until the realisation hit her. "Oh, Saiph, _no_ —"

"Hear ye, hear ye!" he bellowed, arms outstretched invitingly as he spun around to look at each kid. "Come closer, good sirs and madams. I can promise you your time will be worth it."

The role of storyteller was like an old shoe, easier to slip into than Saiph would have believed. He'd forgotten how fun it was to have everyone's eyes on his over-exaggerated features and gestures, even if most of the stares he was currently receiving were confused and apprehensive.

"Will you stop!" Ah, the first heckler, and of course it was the bratty fifteen-year-old from before, the one Rust liked to call She-Wolf. She glared down at him from the second floor balcony, her brother standing behind her and looking anywhere other than the embarrassing scene. "We're in enough shit, stop getting us in more trouble!"

"You have the wrong idea, young miss." Saiph gave her a little bow, smirking as her scowl deepened. "On the contrary, I'm just trying to save you all from more, as you say, shit by warning you of one of the most terrifying creatures to walk this Earth! You're from Nine, surely you know this story. It's written in the wheat fields, in the circles of crops mysteriously flattened."

She-Wolf only rolled her eyes, but Saiph had another watcher now, and she wasn't so cynical.

"Why, you don't mean the dreaded Deva, do you?" One of The Dolls had risen, a girl Saiph's age with mesmerising eyes as dark as night. She raised long, elegant fingers to her perfectly pouted lips. "Oh dear, anything but that."

Saiph wasn't sure if she was actually that into his act, or if she had her own that she played just as well. Either way, he was internally praising her for it.

"Don't be afraid, my dear lady," he said, winking as she approached. "I can protect you from anything, for I have heard stories from those who have seen the beast with their own eyes!"

"Oh my. Do tell."

"Please don't," She-Wolf said from the balcony.

"Agreed." Of course, no one could have a conversation without Glass from 1 butting in. He joined She-Wolf on the balcony, glaring disdainfully down at Saiph. "Can't we get through one hour without you making a ruckus?"

Saiph ignored the slight; the important thing was, he had everyone's attention. Even Calla and Felix had left their cell to see what was going on.

"This is for your own good," he called up to She-Wolf and Glass. His gaze then returned to the crowd on his level, kids standing before him or sitting on the ground. Rust and the Doll who had spoken were right in front of him, on stools at his table.

He crouched down to the newcomer's level, giving her a lopsided grin. "Thanks for earlier. Got a name, beautiful?"

She giggled behind her palm. "Ryla."

"You know how this story goes?"

"Of course."

"Willing to help my cousin with the sound effects?"

"It would be my pleasure."

He looked to Rust, who was beaming, and gave them both a nod. As he stood, both girls slammed their palms down on the table, again and again, as fast as they could go.

 _Patpatpatpatpatpatpatpat._

"You hear that?" Saiph told the crowd. "Be afraid, my friends, for if you hear that, then all is lost. A dangerous beast terrorises the fields of District Nine. No one has ever seen it, but the marks it leaves on our crops are unmistakable. If you hear this noise, then you must run, for that is Deva, and it is coming for you."

 _Patpatpatpatpatpatpatpat._

"The sound of the Deva's footsteps can most often by heard by Gehoon Forest. This, people decided, was the Deva's home, and they feared it. The whole town of Gehoon packed up and left, and the roads through the trees fell into disrepair as the entire area was abandoned. No one wanted to challenge the Deva."

By his feet, Rust and Ryla slowed their slapping, then stopped all together. His cousin's eyes met his and they both grinned.

"There were two, however, who were brave. Braver than all of District Nine combined. A brother and a sister, they planned to rid their home of the Deva, no matter what it took. The boy, let's call him Raiph."

"And let's call the girl Sust," Rust said with a chuckle.

"Dear Panem," said Glass from above.

"One day, Raiph and Sust heard that a new crop circle had been found in the fields of Gehoon. The Deva had emerged once again. As quick as they could, they packed up their bags and made for the forest, and that was when they heard it."

 _Pat, pat, pat, pat._

"But the footsteps sounded far away—perhaps the Deva hadn't found them yet. So Raiph and Sust took each other's hands and made their way into the Gehoon forest. Untrimmed trees twisted around them, gnarled and rotting, with bark like creeping shadows and branches like bent limbs. The temperature had dropped ten degrees, and there was no longer any hint of sun between the mouldy leaves. Raiph and Sust had entered the Deva's lair."

 _Patpatpatpatpat._

"The sound was louder now, and faster!" Saiph all but shouted the last word, and was pleased to see some jump in response. "The Deva had certainly found them now. Raiph and Sust waited, but no beast emerged. So they continued, creeping closer and closer to the sound."

"Raiph and Sust sound like idiots," Glass called down.

In response, Ryla and Rust increased the speed and volume of their slaps.

 _PatpatpatpatPATPATPATPAT._

"The sounds of the Deva grew louder every step they took, but still it didn't show itself. Was it circling them just out of sight? They'd come here to fight, but even they began to worry as they neared the Deva's lair."

 _PATPATPATPATPAT._

"A fallen tree stood in their path. Together, Raiph and Sust drew back the branches and leaves—and they saw it."

 _PATPATPATPATPAT._

"On the ground before them was an enormous mound. All white, like a snow-covered mountain. Raiph and Sust froze, breath caught in their chests, but the Deva made no move to reach them. It had no eyes, or else it wasn't facing their way."

"So it's a ghost," Jabez said, more to himself than anyone else.

Saiph smirked. "Not quite. The Deva had been covered by a sheet, or else its hideous face would cause the whole of the forest to die. But Raiph and Sust were brave, and they had sworn they would look upon the true form of the beast before they killed it. So they kept closer and closer, footsteps masked by the Deva's sound."

 _PATPATPATPAT._

"Odd, they thought. Everyone had always assumed this sound was the Deva chasing you, but here it was, unmoving, though its noise was as loud as ever."

 _PATPATPAT._

"But Raiph and Sust didn't have time for that mystery. They were here to see the Deva with their own eyes, and then they were going to kill it. Releasing each other's hands, they approached as one and gripped the Deva's sheet tight."

 _PATPATPAT._

"One," Saiph said.

"Two." Rust grinned.

"Three!" they both shouted at the same time. Saiph threw up his hands, as if throwing off an invisible sheet, while Rust and Ryla pounded the table with their palms.

 _PATPAT—_

"Ahhh!" Saiph cried, shielding his eyes. "Mounds of fat lumped on top of each other, like a deformed snowman. Its limbs were as saggy as its belly, and it had no neck, only a giant head with two beady eyes, a red hooked nose, and a pair of sausages for lips. It was hideous. It was horrific. It was . . . the mayor of the district?"

Rust and Ryla were smirking. The youngest Doll watching from afar let out a cheery, melodious laugh that led others to do the same. Saiph wasn't sure what it was like in other districts, but it seemed at least a few of them could relate to mocking a mayor. Panem knew 9's old leader deserved it; Fonio Mung had been a Capitol lapdog, as bad as they came, often suggesting himself that taxes on citizens should be raised. Kay had ranted about him endlessly.

"But what was the mayor doing out here in this isolated forest? And if it was indeed the mayor, and not some supernatural being, then where had the Deva's hair-raising noise come from? Raiph and Sust frowned at each other, then looked at the mayor, who had frozen at the sight of them. One hand was over his mouth, but the other couldn't be seen. It was hidden in his pants, where—"

"All right!" She-Wolf was back to shouting down from the balcony, glaring daggers at Saiph once more. "That's more than enough."

Her brother tried to tug her away. "Come on, you never let anyone finish that story."

"You're too young for it, Baley."

"Aw, let the kid live a little." Saiph gave the pair a grin. "What is he, twelve? I was younger than that when I first heard it."

"Were you younger than six?" she snapped back, jerking her head at one of the other tables where the girl with the baby and the young brother sat.

"Whoops." Saiph had completely forgotten about them. "Er, sorry 'bout that."

The girl refused to look at him, but the young boy wasn't having it. He came running up to Saiph's table, arms waving wildly at his sides.

"Keep going, keep going! Did they kill the monster?"

"Ah, well, I'd say it was more like the monster finished himself."

"Oh, _boo,_ " said the younger girl from One.

"You're disgusting," added one of the older Dolls, turning her head to block him from sight with a curtain of black hair.

"I'm _hilarious_ ," Saiph corrected, giving her a wink.

Glass's snort was easily heard from above. "No, but that statement is."

"All right, peanut gallery, you think you can do better?"

"If by that you mean 'do I think I could tell a story with an ounce of class', then yes, yes I do."

"Bit rich coming from someone with your background," Rust called up to him. "What stories would you know?"

"You'd be surprised."

"Then get down here and stop bluffing."

It had worked. Like magic, all traces of the afternoon's sadness had been washed away. Rust was bickering with Glass, who was becoming overwhelmed as more people called for him to back his words with proof. The older Dolls were scolding the younger one for bickering, but Ryla was heading over calling for them to lighten up. Baley's eyes had just widened in realisation, and was now trying to hold back snorts as his sister whacked him on the arm, telling him he wasn't allowed to get it. Even Calla wasn't frowning anymore, though her brow was furrowed in confusion as she looked at Felix, who was barely holding back a smile as she asked for clarification.

Saiph grinned. The teasing, the laughing, it reminded him of the team of rebel messengers he and Rust had worked with back in 9. They'd suffered losses then, and he'd still managed to turn the tide of their mood. Maybe he could make this situation work after all. And maybe, this time, they could actually win.

"Okay, okay, calm down, you animals," Glass shouted over the audience of hecklers he had amassed. "I'll give you what you want. Once upon a time—"

"Boring."

"Cliché."

"I've heard this one before."

He glowered down at them. "I hate all of you. Now, shut up and listen."

Saiph stopped watching the crowd to listen, an amused smirk already on his face. Glass certainly looked out of his depth, though he did his best to hide it with a deep, confident breath. His mouth opened.

 _Beeeeeeep._

Everyone froze. That was no story effect, but a sound they all knew well. In silence, they all turned, as though every other noise in the cellblock had been stolen by that single, unassuming beep.

Twenty-two pairs of eyes landed on the dumbwaiter. Saiph's stomach twisted painfully; in all the excitement, he'd forgotten just how hungry he was. More and more, he regretted throwing half his oatmeal earlier. The same definitely wouldn't be happening to dinner tonight.

Thoughts of this morning brought back the memory of the intercom announcement. So far, everything else the voice had said had been true: the guards, it seemed, had really abandoned them. But the bit about the food portions, that had to be a bluff, didn't it? Even the Capitol couldn't be that cruel.

What the hell was he thinking? Of course they could be.

Unlike this morning, there was no mad rush for the dumbwaiter, though many kids looked just as hungry as Saiph felt. However, nervousness could be found in their expressions in equal amounts. Just like himself, it appeared no one wanted to believe the Capitol's threats, nor were they eager for confirmation that they were true. None of them were that brave. Instead, they looked to Jabez.

Saiph couldn't help but feel a twitch of jealousy as the boy from 10 moved towards the dumbwaiter. Usually, everyone looked to _him_ like that. Rust certainly did, as well as 9's messengers. Sure, Jabez was Captain Smithfield's son, but that was his father's fame, not his. Had Jabez himself actually done anything for the rebels? Because Saiph sure as hell had.

Still, there was nothing for it; he'd taken too long to make his move, and now Jabez was at the dumbwaiter. Saiph watched, trying not to glare, as the boy removed a tray from the industrial-sized opening and turned around.

Rows of dry brown buns were what greeted everyone tonight. Twenty-one portions in all.

There was no need to do a quick count. One corner of the tray had been left glaringly empty.

Gazes darted around, meeting, looking away, then flitting back. No one wanted to say it, but the words hung heavy in the air nonetheless. The Capitol had not been bluffing. The threat was real.

Who was going to go without dinner tonight?

Only Jabez didn't look around, instead keeping his eyes firmly on the tray. With a sigh, he reached for it again. Everyone tensed, expecting him to take the first bun and secure a portion for himself, but he only lifted the tray in his arm and brought it over to the closest kids: the girl with the baby and her brother.

Of course, he'd say the missing portion was the baby's. They didn't need to eat much anyways, did they?

But no, he gave the three kids a bun each before moving on. This was repeated with the five Dolls. The two sisters. On and on and on.

It was only when the bread supply was getting low that Saiph realised what Jabez was thinking. Calla seemed to have clued in as well; as he handed her one of the last three buns, she held back, murmuring, "Jabez . . . there's only twenty-one."

"I know," he answered, offering her the bread again.

For a moment, Saiph thought she wouldn't take it. Her brows tilted up, eyes glistening as she looked at Jabez, as though she was about to cry again. Then the eye contact broke, and she reluctantly accepted the bun.

"Thank you," she whispered as he moved on.

By now, there were only three people without food: Rust, Saiph, and Jabez. Everyone knew who would be skipping a portion though, and the thought of it was enough to sober the entire crowd once more. Not an ounce of the joy generated by Saiph's story remained in the cellblock; kids were too preoccupied with the selfless act before them, and the guilt they felt over not being the ones to perform it.

Seeing Rust look so crushed was the worst of it. Saiph knew she liked to pretend she was a perfect heroine like those in her books, but he also knew hunger affected her worst than the rest. She'd never been well-off, but she'd had two working parents, who had only had one child to feed. There was no shame in admitting she wanted the bread, though her cheeks were red and her eyes downcast as she accepted the bun in Jabez's hand.

There was only one left on the tray now. Jabez didn't even hesitate in picking it up. For a half second, Saiph thought the boy was going to walk away with it, but of course he simply held it out to Saiph as he had with all the others.

Immediately, heat rushed to Saiph's face. Of course Jabez wasn't going to run away with it; that wasn't who he was. Rebel or not, he was still the kind of person who would give up a meal to feed someone else. Hell, he probably wouldn't even complain about it. Saiph could all too clearly picture him refusing to take a portion every day until it killed him

And he'd had the nerve to be jealous of this kid. No wonder everyone looked to him as a leader; Saiph could entertain them for an hour or two, but when it cam time to make the hard decisions, where was he? Letting others do it for him, like all the rest.

Rust would tell him not to be too down on himself. People needed laughter just as much as they needed leadership.

He just wished he could do both.

Well, couldn't he?

Saiph reached up a hand, grabbing for the bun. Jabez gave a little nod, about to pull away, when Saiph's fingers dug into the bun, tearing it in two, and leaving Jabez holding a half of his own.

The rebel's son stared at him, shock replacing his usual stoicism. Saiph grinned.

"The Capitol says we get twenty-one portions, and I say fuck you." He touched his bun to Jabez's in a mockery of a toast. "To the districts."

Brows furrowed, as if Jabez still couldn't comprehend what was going on, but then his lip twitched slightly in the first hint of a smile Saiph had seen on the boy's serious face. "Yeah. To the districts."

"The districts!" Rust shouted at Saiph's side, clapping him on the back.

Many in the cellblock were still apprehensive, glancing at the cameras that surrounded them, but a few still took up the cry. Ryla. Baley. The younger girl from One. The Three with long, brown hair.

"The districts!"

"The districts!"

"The districts!"

"The districts!"

Saiph's smile widened. He tapped the unoccupied stool on his other side, looking at Jabez. "You gonna sit?"

The rebel's son did, and Saiph positively beamed. So what if he wasn't the only one people looked to? He wasn't a book character, he was a real person, and everyone had shortcomings. Jabez too. But maybe between the two of them, and Rust, and her new friend, they could lead this group towards something better.

One thing was for sure: with two rebels at the head of the pack, there was no way they were sitting still.

* * *

 _And I walk these streets, a loaded six string on my back_  
 _I play for keeps, 'cause I might not make it back_  
 _I've been everywhere, and still I'm standing tall_  
 _I've seen a million faces and I've rocked them all_

* * *

 _Note: Thank you for reading. This story has officially been made M; apologies, I'd forgotten to make the change earlier. Additionally, I have made a website for this story. You can find it at: i-thefirstgames . weebly . com._

 _It's relatively bare at the moment, but images of the tributes are up, as well as a few facts for each of them. If you have any issues with your tribute's post or picture, please let me know, and I would be happy to change it. Unfortunately, I could not find exact matches for all of the tributes, so there are some discrepancies when it comes to the pictures. The way I designed the website was slightly similar to a guard's report like the one Tacita received, so some tributes will have more written about them, and some will have less, depending on how noteworthy they are to Capitol. Additionally, some of the facts may be wrong, or deliberately hidden to enhance the story (and because the Capitol may not know the true answers), so if something about your tribute seems incorrect, message me and I will let you know if it was intentional or not. Please know as well that the amount written about them is by no means is a judge of how much I like your character: I appreciate them all equally, even if they have had less mentions on the website or in the story thus far. Some tributes simply have more overbearing personalities that demand more attention, but I will nevertheless do my best to give every character the spotlight they deserve. Their time may just come slightly later in the story. Thank you all for your patience._


	10. Family Jewels

_I can't break the cycle_  
 _Am I just a fool?_  
 _Falling down like dominos_  
 _Hit by family jewels_

* * *

Everyone wanted to be a part of the popular crew.

The cousins from 9, the girl with the gorgeous silver-blonde hair, and the martyr-in-the-making formed the core group. Loud and proud, of course they drew the eye; their type could _never_ resist the attention, although to their credit, 3 and 10 at least looked moderately embarrassed by the rambunctiousness of their companions.

It made little difference; their following was already expanding. The teary one from earlier who'd broken down was all cleaned up with a nervous smile on her face as she sat by the two girls. Meanwhile, wide-eyed Baley Keene was hanging around the edges of the crowd, as close as his sister would let him get. The breathtaking group of five girls were pointedly ignoring this new gathering, but the youngest and the one with the sultry eyes looked on the verge of breaking away. Their leader, pretty lips curled in a stern frown, did not seem pleased.

Already, there were cliques and rivalries. The bitches were shedding their beautiful masks, the older boys all vying for power and choking on their own testosterone—it was high school all over again.

At least, it was what high school would probably have been like. Carlyn Colbert had only been ten when the war had started, and just under thirteen when 1 had declared its support for the rebellion. When the Capitol had retaliated, schools had started shutting down.

She'd still knew about high school, though. Her sister had told her all about it.

Carlyn gave a small sigh, taking her eyes off the loudmouths to focus on someone a little closer to home. Camille sat on the cot across from hers, head down, arms folded, just as she had been ever since they'd finished their dinner.

 _Stay in the cell_ , she'd said. _Don't give the Capitol a reason to hurt you. Stay away from the idiots. Follow the rules. I'll keep you safe._

That was all well and good, but it was also what they'd been doing for the entire day _._ Carlyn's leg had started bouncing a few hours ago, and it hadn't stopped since.

Odd as it was, she was starting to realise she missed being forced to slave away in the fields. It was hard work, but it was _good_ , nothing like the prissy jobs school had been training her for in 1. She wanted to march through the dirt again, breathing in the musky smell of wheat stalks, feeling the burn in her muscles, toughening the callouses on her fingertips, having a hoe held tight in her hands . . .

 _Or is it a ho you miss holding more?_

Oh, that was bad. Panem help her, the 9 boy and his terrible jokes were already having an influence.

Carlyn shook her head, smirking to herself at the thought of what Alycia's reaction would have been. She'd have gotten a slap, at least. Or she would have, if Alycia Riddell was not the most pacifistic saint ever to grace the streets of 1. More likely, Carlyn would have gotten a stern talking-to. And then a pretty little pout, a tear-jerking "Is that really what you think of me?", and the rest of the night would have to be spent consoling the hurt party in ways Carlyn certainly didn't mind.

For a fleeting miracle of a moment, Carlyn could feel the warmth of another pressed against her side. She could see it all so clearly. Alycia's bangs swept across her face, brown and orange and blonde like a tiger's eye gem. Eyes peeking out underneath, kind and tender and crinkled at the edges. Lips pink and full, moving, speaking—

"Carlyn? Are you all right?"

And there went the fantasy. Carlyn opened her eyes, berating herself for ever allowing her imagination to get away from her. It only served to increase the ache in her heart.

Alycia was hundreds of miles away. The only presence that would ever be at her side was her sister's.

"Carlyn—"

"I'm fine," she snapped, more aggressive than she'd intended. "Why?"

Camille stood before her, staring down over a confused frown. "You were smiling to yourself."

"Oh, is there a law against that now?"

There was a miniscule shift in her sister's brows, and for a split second, she looked hurt. The sight sent a hot sting of shame through Carlyn's stomach, but it wasn't quite enough to soften her voice. Alycia's image was still too fresh in her mind.

Camille crossed her arms, and in an instant, the stoic protector was back. "You know it could provoke the guards. I'm just trying to keep you safe."

There it was: the line that finished every argument. Carlyn tried to maintain eye contact this time, but her gut was twisting, her cheeks were turning warm, and her sister was so, so high above her. How symbolic.

She looked down, as she always did, biting hard on her lip as though pain could erase her jumble of feelings. Guilt, remorse, a little bit of awe—and anger, of course. Which only made her feel guiltier, because what right did she have to be mad at her sister? Without Camille keeping her safe, she'd have died along with their parents.

 _But Alycia_ . . .

"No one made a fuss during the idiot's story time," she murmured into her lap, feeling every bit like a petulant child for complaining, but the lingering memories pushed her to continue, "Am I not allowed to be happy?"

Camille said nothing, but Carlyn heard the ancient bedsprings creak as her sister took a seat by her side. Fingers crept beneath her chin, gently tilting her head up. Hesitantly, Carlyn looked up into deep grey eyes so like their mother's, and all she could think about was how the young woman before her was a better parent than any others she had known.

"Of course you can," Camille said softly, though she continued to frown as she spoke. It wasn't stern this time, or hurt, but curious. Happiness came so rarely in the cellblock, and in their lives. "What were you thinking about?"

She could lie. She had, more often than not. Camille had enough on her plate without Carlyn contributing to it.

But Alycia. Still on her mind, the one thing that could come between her and her sister.

"Alycia."

The change in Camille's face was instantaneous. Eyes hardened, jaw clenched—small shifts, but for her sister, she might as well have been bellowing in rage.

"Thinking about her isn't going to help you." Her sister's tone was as steely as her gaze. "I told you that. If you focus too much on other people, you won't be able to protect yourself."

 _Then why don't you mind your own business, for a change?_

No, she couldn't say that. To anyone else, gladly, perhaps with an added punch in the face, but not to Camille. Not to the sister that had done so much for her.

But she was also the sister who had left Alycia behind, and Carlyn had spent too long brooding silently over that fact. She wanted to rebel, to show Camille in some way that lying to her at the train station was not at all okay, but how to do that without hurting her sister?

What she needed, more than anything, was to be alone. She hadn't had her own space to sort out her thoughts since . . . well, since their house had burned and her bedroom with it. After that, she hadn't been allowed out of Camille's eyesight. It had been too dangerous, and Carlyn respected that, but was there really still a need for it now? Without the guards, the most threatening person in the cellblock was probably the fifteen-year-old with the bad attitude, and Carlyn had nearly six inches on her. She was rather confident she could take most anyone on if a fight happened to break out—and, to be entirely honest, she almost hoped one would.

"Oi! What exactly are you doing?"

Maybe the hope wasn't entirely unlikely. In the main area, the leader of the Loudmouth Crew had shut everyone up with a shout, directed at the girl from 8, who had a mattress and sheet under her arm which she was currently dragging across the cellblock. Carlyn didn't know her well, but she knew the girl seemed quiet, until provoked. Then a little bit of her inner wildfire showed, as it did now when she spun on her heel to glare at the storyteller with such fierceness even he looked momentarily disturbed.

"If you want to force me to spend another night in those fucking cells," she spat, "Then I dare you to try."

The boy blinked as she resumed dragging her bedding, heading for the corner of the main space furthest from the cells. Weird as she was, Carlyn had to admire her for rendering the storyteller speechless, and for thinking up the idea to move her bed. After all, if the guards weren't there, who said they had to sleep behind bars?

Evidently she wasn't the only one who thought the plan was good. Though still a bit shaken, the storyteller had reclaimed enough of his ridiculous overconfidence to start shouting again.

"All right! Everyone grab your beds, we're going to have a sleepover out here!"

"Don't come anywhere near me," hissed the girl from her corner.

"Grab your beds, we're going to have a sleepover over there," he corrected, hurriedly pointing in the opposite direction.

Carlyn wanted to roll her eyes at the obnoxiousness of the boy and his crew, but she couldn't deny they were on to something. Maybe all she needed to deal with her thoughts and feelings was a little more room to breathe.

As soon as she made to stand, a hand came down on hers. "What are you doing?"

She sighed, looking back at her newly stern sister. "I'm going out there."

"Why?"

"Cam, I just want to spend one night out of this cell." A little bit of begging was starting to creep into her tone, but she'd feel ashamed for that later. "Don't you?"

"No."

Of course not—all Camille needed to sleep soundly was her sister at her side. But boy, did she need that. Otherwise the nightmares came, though Camille had never told her what she dreamt about. All Carlyn knew was that sneaking away for a night with Alycia had been a hellish experience.

There she was again, back on her mind. Thoughts of her girlfriend swelled until Carlyn could almost pretend she could feel Alycia next to her, giving her enough confidence to say, "Look, I want to sleep outside. You can come if you like, but I'm not staying in here."

Immediately, she turned away and left the cell, never allowing herself to look back. If she caught sight of her sister's face, she might lose her nerve and instantly regret leaving Camille behind.

She never had the chance. Not four steps had she taken before her sister was at her side once more, each hand wrapped tight around the corner of a mattress.

"Where are we going?" she asked, because it always, _always_ had to be "we".

She needed a breather. Just one night without Camille hovering over her shoulder. Not that her sister would be pleased to hear that, and for her part, Carlyn would rather take on one hundred Capitol soldiers barehanded than tell Camille directly to get lost.

To put some distance between the two of them, she'd need a plan. Her eyes roamed across the main area, mind whirring as she took in each person present, until finally, she settled on one.

Yeah. She could make this work.

"Carlyn?" Her sister was eyeing her again, frowning. "Where do you want to sleep?"

"Sorry. Lost in thought. I was just thinking, you know what?" She turned to her sister, expression sliding effortlessly into an eager grin. "We can still use the sinks, right? I haven't had the time to give my face a good wash in, jeez, forever. It'll be nice to have a bit of the normal routine back."

"The guards—"

"Cam, if they haven't come back yet, odds are they're not coming at all."

Her sister opened her mouth in response, hesitated, then said, "Fine. I'll come too."

"And drag the mattresses in with you? Don't be ridiculous, just go set them up in a corner. I'm not going to drown in the sink." She gave Camille a reassuring smile, warmer than any expression she'd worn since they'd left Alycia behind. "Pick a nice spot for us. You can even shove the mattresses together, like we had it at Brandon's place."

Normally, her sister wouldn't have budged on the subject, but part of being a great liar meant learning how to manipulate people into wanting to believe your truth. Carlyn had been taught that by the best; surprising then that her sister didn't pick up on the technique now.

Instead, it worked, and well. Now, with a cautious frown and a curt nod, Carlyn was dismissed while Camille set up their sleeping area.

Such a task wouldn't occupy her for long, and then she'd rejoin Carlyn in an instant. It was time to act fast.

Lacking anything to do today besides sulk about Alycia and give her sister the silent treatment, Carlyn had taken to people-watching. In a fight, half the battle was knowing your opponent, and while this wasn't an inherently violent situation, it was good to know her fellow inmates all the same.

Right now, she had her eyes locked on the brother/sister duo from 9, Baley and Laurel Keene. They'd often caught her eye, if only because their relationship was a warped mirror of Carlyn and Camille's. Protective older sibling, idiot younger sibling—sounded about right. Only Laurel was violent and abusive where Camille was simply a bit overcautious. Perhaps that was why Carlyn felt an automatic pang of sympathy every time she watched young Baley get chewed out by his older sister.

Now, at least, she could do something for him. Her observations had largely been casual, but it had been hard not to notice the amount of time Laurel Keene spent in the washroom, always emerging with her hands rubbed raw. Additionally, while her brother welcomed approaches by the six-year-old, Laurel could barely contain her disgust, and stayed a good five feet back at all times, especially whenever the little kid coughed, sneezed, spit, or did anything else unsanitary. Carlyn could use that.

The Keenes were in the perfect location too, hovering by the washroom door on the fringes of the Loudmouth Crew. Carlyn strode forward, letting her gaze drift about naturally while keeping her attention fully focused on the two in front of her.

"Can't I listen? he's telling another story!"

"And it's probably just as bad as the last. It's your bedtime anyways."

"No one else is sleeping."

"And if everyone jumped off a bridge, would you—?"

" _Atchoo_!"

It was funny, how a tough girl like Laurel could let out such a high-pitched shriek. The moment Carlyn stumbled into her, faking a sneeze and a few coughs for good measure, Laurel leapt back like she'd been burned, narrow eyes now comically wide.

"Ew, ew, ew," she muttered like a mantra as she swept her hands across her face, rubbing so violently Carlyn was sure she'd break the skin. " _Ew_ ," she added forcefully when she was done, her usual deadly expression retaking her face. "What the hell, bitch?"

Carlyn raised a hand to her mouth, the perfect pose of apology. "Oh Panem, I'm _so_ sorry. I was just going to grab some water, felt a bit dizzy, and I _totally_ didn't see you there. So, so sorry, I think I'm coming down with something, it's making my vision all blurry."

That did it. With the implication of disease, Laurel fell back another step, fighting to keep her glare on her face.

"Stay right here," she demanded, hand already on the washroom door. "I'm not done with you."

"Of course. Again, I'm so—"

The door to the washroom had already swung shut. Carlyn held her sympathetic expression for a moment longer, then dropped it to allow herself a victory smirk.

The change didn't go unnoticed by Baley. "What was that for?" he asked, a bit suspicious but nowhere near as confrontational as his sister. "You really shouldn't do that—in a place like this, bacteria can travel like a wildfire."

"I know. And I really am sorry," she said, giving the younger Keene a genuine smile. "But I need your help, from one kid with an overprotective sister to another."

He kept his face in a frown, no doubt a lesson he learned from Laurel, but Carlyn could see he was interested.

"What do you want?"

"My sister is over there. Long red hair, serious expression, see her?" Carlyn pointed and promptly realised Camille was already placing their mattresses. This had to be quick. "All I need you to do is distract her."

Baley looked over at Camille, brow furrowed. "Isn't she the one who keeps getting caught with shivs?"

"And aren't you curious as to how she gets them?" Carlyn bent down and whispered, "Her latest was made from a dead man's toe."

"Oh, gross. Gross!" But unlike his sister, the prospect of something disgusting didn't seem to put Baley off. He was chuckling, now looking at Camille with the sort of fascination one got from something that was at once sickening and awesome.

"Okay," Baley said, giving her a cute grin. "I've got you covered."

Carlyn smiled as he ran off. So her story wasn't entirely true; Baley didn't have to know, and it would keep the two of them occupied long enough for her to slip away.

She stepped into the washroom just in case her sister turned her way, keeping the door ajar to watch her plan in action. Once Baley confronted Camille, then she could—

"All right, sicko, time for you to explain what the fuck you thought you were doing."

Shoot—she'd forgotten about Laurel. Upon seeing her enter the washroom, the younger girl left the sink to march up to her, and Carlyn couldn't afford to get caught up in a lecture now.

Ah. Actually, she might be able to work this in her favour.

"I'm so sorry. Again. But I think my older sister is the one you want to talk to for compensation. She usually handles these things, more responsible and all that."

It felt odd and just a little embarrassing to talk about herself like she was a useless child to a girl who was actually younger than her, but it did the job. The moment she opened the washroom door to point out Camille, Laurel's eyes zeroed in on the enthusiastic boy by her side.

"Baley?" she breathed, taking in the scene. Then she was off, without so much as another word to Carlyn, her attention fully focused on Camille as she stormed across the main area. Already she was shouting.

The little hub of chaos she'd created brought a smile to Carlyn's lips. She'd feel bad for putting her sister in such a position later, but for a few precious minute, at least, she was free to be alone.

That wouldn't last if she stayed here, though. The washroom would be the first place Camille looked for her after breaking away from the Keenes. There was no way she was hiding out in another cell, but then the main area was too exposed.

That left the yard then, didn't it? Was it still open? She supposed it was worth a check.

As quietly as she could, she slipped out of the washroom doorway and began to make her way around the edge of the main area, keeping as far from her sister as possible. The caution wasn't necessary; Camille had enough people vying for her attention as the Loudmouth Crew approached to see what Laurel was shouting about. It was a clusterfuck of arguments, and her sister was at the centre of it. Good.

Carlyn snuck along the row of cells, keeping low until she reached the yard door. It was already cracked open as if waiting for her. She grinned as she slipped through, leaving the stuffy, oppressive air of the cellblock behind and stepping outside to take her first fresh breath.

Her lungs filled, crisp and cool, and then she promptly choked upon exhalation as a voice interrupted her.

"Yard's taken."

She blinked, eyes trying to adjust to the sudden lack of light to find the speaker, but all was covered in shadow. Even the camp's streetlamps didn't extend all the way out here; they only had the stars and the moon.

 _Stars and the moon_ . . . She'd seen them plenty of times, of course—they were often kept late in the fields—but this was the first time in weeks that she'd actually had the chance to enjoy them. Usually she'd never have stopped to think about such trivial things, but Alycia had always loved dragging her up to the rooftops to count constellations or watch sunsets or—

"Kid. Did you hear me? Go back inside."

Carlyn shook her head, dragging her mind back into the present. Now, she was beginning to make out shapes surrounding her: the bars of the yard, the camp's fence just beyond it, and the two humanoid figures sitting on either side of her.

It was the one on her right who had spoken, definitely a girl but with a rough, husky voice that was surprisingly pleasant on the ears. Carlyn stared at her, waiting for her features to emerge from the darkness.

Broad shoulders, strong arms, long hair—her eyes took in more as they adjusted, until she could be sure it was one of the 3 girls looking back at her. Which meant the other girl, the quiet one, was likely the third from 3. They were the only two Carlyn couldn't remember seeing inside.

The girl she was watching groaned, raising a hand to her forehead. "You deaf? Or dumb?"

"What?" Carlyn frowned. "No. I just wanted to be alone."

"Well, that's not happening here, clearly. Go back inside."

"It's not happening in there either, trust me," she muttered, sinking onto the concrete ground and crossing her legs.

"Uh-uh. Don't get comfortable."

"Why can't I be out here?"

"I wanted to be alone first."

Carlyn jerked her head to the right, at the girl silently watching the exchange. "But you're not."

"'Delia doesn't count."

"Why?"

"Because she's _quiet_."

"I can be quiet too."

"Then by all means, give us a demonstration."

Carlyn considered it. She really did just want some alone time, but even if the two girls from 3 were quiet, that didn't mean they weren't there. More than not wanting to talk, Carlyn wanted to not be watched, though apparently the only way that would happen was if she locked herself in a washroom stall and refused to come out. Even then, Camille would probably find a way to her.

Still . . . this didn't have to be a total loss. She couldn't think, sure, but she could get the next best thing, and that was an outlet for all her pent-up energy.

She laid back across the concrete, stretching out so that her head was pointed towards the pissy girl. Upside down, she gave her a smile. "So, I'm Carlyn."

"Fuck's sake, I thought you could be quiet."

"Aw, come on, what's the harm in a little conversation? What's your name?"

"Fuck off."

"Hi, Fuck Off. Nice to meet you." She raised her head, looking over at the other girl in the corner. "And you were Delia?"

The shadowed figure shifted, and out came a tentative, "Ardelia."

"Ardelia and Fuck Off. Very nice."

"Her name is Thisbe."

"Damn it." Thisbe rose to her feet, pointing first to Ardelia, then to Carlyn. "Don't let her rope you into this. Now, you, get out."

"You two seem to hang out a lot together," Carlyn continued, ignoring her altogether. "You sisters? Friends? Girlfriends?"

"We're soldiers," Thisbe said before Ardelia could respond. "And if you don't leave, you'll be getting some proof."

"Oh?" _Perfect._ Thisbe looked ready to snap, and Carlyn was practically vibrating with energy. She hopped up as well, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she gave Thisbe a grin. "What a coincidence. I'm a soldier too."

"No you're fucking not."

"Commanding officer, in fact. Of One's most powerful regiment. We heard that in Three, the only drills you had to do were math exams. Is that true?"

Ugh, even she was starting to hate herself. Cocky idiots never failed to piss people off, but then, when that was the intention, it was best to play the part. And Carlyn played it very well.

Perhaps a little _too_ well. Thisbe was certainly not holding back as her foot swung up and slammed into Carlyn's stomach.

In the instant of contact, there was pain, but worse than that was the shame. _Idiot_ , she should have seen that coming! It had been too dark to keep focused on the girl's legs and face, and now she was paying the price.

Carlyn fell back, stomach throbbing, arms out to slap the ground as she hit it hard. Her chin she kept tucked in, head inches above the ground. One concussion was all it took to teach her how to fall better the next time.

Yes, she'd been here before, in so many fights like this. In fact, she'd had far worse. Pain she could get used to, but the thrill of that adrenaline rush never went away.

Thisbe stared at her as she rolled back up into a standing position, smiling like she was none the worse for wear. "Well then. The princess from One can take a few hits."

"You should see what I can dish out."

Immediately, she dropped low, hands rising to make fists. Thisbe's arms flew to her stomach, covering the area she thought Carlyn would hit in payback and leaving her chin perfectly vulnerable to a fierce uppercut as Carlyn bounced back up, throwing all the momentum of her jump into her punch.

Thisbe's head snapped back, and she stumbled away, swearing. Carlyn had once knocked a girl out with that hit, but she didn't want anyone unconscious now. Then the fun would end.

Though it might nonetheless. Ardelia was on her feet now, eyes on Carlyn as she stepped forward. Her posture was rigid, with none of Thisbe's languid movements; if there was anyone she believed had been a soldier, it was this girl.

"No, Ardelia." Thisbe stopped her with a simple gesture, though her gaze was focused on Carlyn. "Please, allow me."

Carlyn raised her fists, grinning. "Bring it."

And Thisbe did. Once more, her leg came up, swinging around to slam into her opponent's side. Carlyn was in fight mode now, though, and she saw the blow coming a mile away. A quick step back, then a leap forward—straight into Thisbe's second kick.

Her stomach muscles tensed, but it still hit her like a truck. Maybe there was actually some truth to the whole soldier thing.

Or not. A smart fighter would have snapped their foot back immediately, but Thisbe was slow, just slow enough for Carlyn to wrap her arm around the girl's leg. Like a dancer, she glided forward, grabbing the girl's prison suit in her free hand and yanking her back. Thisbe wobbled on her one foot, off-balance, then toppled as Carlyn slid her own leg in behind Thisbe's knee, straightening it and forcing the girl to buckle.

It was clear she'd never had training on how to fall either. Her arms weren't straight out, but windmilled wildly; Carlyn would have laughed, if Thisbe hadn't managed to catch her off-guard. The girl's scrambling fingers found home in Carlyn's own jumpsuit, dragging her down as well.

They fell, panting, Carlyn on top of Thisbe. Air left them both, but Carlyn recovered faster, pushing herself up over Thisbe's chest to find the two of them almost nose to nose.

She grinned. "Hi."

In response, Thisbe threw a punch at her nose. Carlyn caught her arm and rolled over, trying to get herself in a position to force Thisbe into an arm bar, but they were on the ground now, and that was where the bigger, muscular opponents thrived. Thisbe managed to hold her back with her one arm, wrapping her other one around Carlyn's throat.

Oh, no. No way was she going to be forced to tap out.

Thisbe pulled back with her arm, trying to choke her, but Carlyn went with the movement, slamming her head backwards into Thisbe's face. It was a risky move, and painful, but completely worth it as she felt something hot wash over her hair.

Thisbe released her, and she scrambled away, turning back to see her handiwork. What she expected was a girl on the ground clutching her bloody nose.

What she did _not_ expect was said girl lunging for, completely ignoring the blood running over her lips. Apparently 3 made them tougher than she'd originally anticipated.

Carlyn raised her arms, but her last attack had rattled her brain, and she misjudged where Thisbe's hit would land. Instead of hitting her face, the older girl went for Carlyn's already poorly treated stomach. One solid punch knocked Carlyn onto her back once more, and then it was Thisbe on top, smirking through a mouthful of blood.

"Hi."

Carlyn tensed as she reared back, but the fist she formed never landed. There was a furious cry, a blur of motion, and someone had tackled Thisbe right off of Carlyn.

It wasn't hard to guess who it could have been.

 _Shit._

Carlyn struggled to her feet, one hand clutching her still-spinning head. Her vision was a bit blurry, and the dark was an added challenge, but she could still see the scene frozen before her. Thisbe was back on her feet, fists up and brow lowered, like she wasn't quite sure what to make of the situation. Directly across from her was none other than Camille, who had her own hands raised and murder in her eyes. The only reason Thisbe wasn't currently on the ground with her brain leaking out of her skull was Ardelia, who had somehow managed to step between them and stop them both with a hand on their chests. The girl was taller than the others, and held herself with the sort of discipline that made others listen, but Carlyn could tell it was only a matter of time before Camille snapped.

"Cam, enough," she said hurriedly, hobbling forward to reach her sister's side. "It's okay."

"She hurt you." Her sister was actually shaking. "She _hurt_ you."

"Look, it's not what you think. It was just . . ."

Actually, what was it? For Carlyn, it had been a way to let off steam, the same way other people might take up jogging, but with fights, there was so much room for error. And it did look like she'd broken Thisbe's nose. Maybe the other girl had been hitting her with much darker intentions.

Carlyn could certainly believe that, looking at her now. Tall and intimidating, with eyes narrowed over a blood-splattered face—maybe she had gotten herself in over her head.

But then, just as Camille tensed to pounce, Thisbe threw back her head and laughed.

"Whew. Haven't had that much fun in a while."

Camille and Ardelia stared, but Carlyn broke out into a beaming grin. "Oh? Enjoy getting your ass handed to you?"

"Please. I'm not the one who had to call in backup." She chuckled, turning her gaze on Camille and her fists. "At ease. I wasn't trying to kill your sister."

"You hurt her."

"Rest assured, she paid me back." Thisbe reached a finger up to her nose, grimacing as she gently prodded it. "I'll admit, you got some good hits in. Does One really teach you to fight like that?"

Carlyn smiled. "The streets do. How about you, you a real soldier?"

"Would have been, if I'd made it to Four. I was heading there to enlist. You?"

Carlyn glanced at her sister. In her mind, the memories flashed. Fire, screams, the streets, Brandon Haller and his crew of orphaned pickpockets, the soldiers, the takeover, the train. And above it all was Alycia, her image glowing clear as day before Carlyn's eyes.

"Just running," she said firmly, to Camille as much as Thisbe. "We did a lot of that. Too much."

Camille tilted her head, trying to understand her meaning, but Carlyn had already turned away. Now, her eyes were solely on Thisbe.

"I'd like to stop that now."

Thisbe shrugged. "Not hard here—nowhere really to run." She sat back on the ground, still fingering her nose as Ardelia followed suit. Then she looked back up at Carlyn and grinned. "But you're welcome to stay, if you can learn how to shut up for five seconds."

Camille took her hand. "Carlyn, we should go."

There it was again: the choice between her sister and another. How many of those had they had in their lives?

For Camille, the answer had always been simple. Carlyn, Carlyn, and Carlyn again. She'd run to her room when the looters had set their block aflame, she'd hurried her away instead of fighting with Brandon when he'd been caught, and she'd lied to her about Alycia to get her on the train. Her decision had always been Carlyn—and it had always been to run.

Caryn had never been able to do that. How selfish had she been, for choosing others over her own blood?

But Alycia had said that was all right. She'd said siblings should still be allowed to have lives outside of each other, and she had five, so didn't she know what she was talking about?

Carlyn looked from Camille to Thisbe, both watching her carefully. She gave them each a smile.

And she sat down in the yard.

* * *

 _Oh, don't you find it strange?_  
 _Only thing we share is one last name_  
 _Did I beat you at your own game?_  
 _Typical of me to put us all to shame_

* * *

 _Note: Thank you for reading. Apologies for the late update; occasionally I'll have plan that will prevent me from updating Saturday, in which case, expect an update Sunday instead. Additionally, the blog has been updated slightly, if you're interested (main changes are Rust has a new picture, and some information has been added to Carlyn and Carly's posts)._


	11. This Freedom

_Tell me no more stories_  
 _And I'll tell you no lies_  
 _No one wants to hurt me_  
 _But everybody tries_

* * *

The lights were still on when the younger ones started to show signs of sleepiness. With no clock in the cellblock, it was impossible to tell if it was past the time when they were supposed to turn off, but Robin Hoare had a sneaking suspicion it was.

So, doors all open, lights left on, no field work—had they really been all but abandoned by their guards? Was there even a person charged with delivering their food, or was that hooked up to some fancy, automatic Capitol system?

It mattered little, she supposed. The important thing was that it seemed there would no longer be soldiers entering the cellblock for the near future.

That should have been a happy thought. It wasn't. Robin was seventeen, and seventeen years in Panem was more than enough to learn life here never improved, it was just a turn for the worse disguised as change for the better. At least the guards had been devils she knew.

Up high on the balcony, she could see each and every prisoner beneath her, and her narrowed eyes watched carefully as they interacted amongst themselves. Where others might have seen children, she saw only threats. The younger ones were all right, as were those who kept only to themselves, but the moment they showed a desire to control more than their own lives, Robin added them to her mental list.

Saiph Sarabande was at the top, of course. Obnoxious, arrogant, and an idiot, if his behaviour was anything to go by. Yet he was somehow still likeable, at least to those too blind to see his faults. From where she stood, Robin could see the full extent of his following, which included two of her sisters. How he'd managed to ensnare them was beyond her, but the thought made her fists clench.

Jabez Smithfield followed his new friend. The boy may have been quieter, but Robin didn't like the way he automatically took charge in any given situation, as though it was his birthright. It may have benefited them so far, but how long until Smithfield started throwing his weight around? The self-sacrificial martyr act couldn't last.

Then there was the newest addition: Carlyn Colbert. Re-entering the cellblock laughing, Thisbe Von Patten at her side, Ardelia Reid and Camille Colbert at their backs. The young girl was loud enough to rival the larger group that had formed by the washroom. A move born of a desire to draw attention. She would be one to keep watching.

The game was power, and while there only seemed to be three major players, Robin made sure to keep an eye on Felix Twisp and Glass as well. Both were on their own, and both showed a particular distaste for following. Add to that their natural charisma, even if Twisp was reserved and Glass was an asshole, and they could very quickly become dangerous. Too often those who chose not to follow decided it would be better to lead.

Besides, she didn't like the look of either of them. Twisp, she knew, had already had a complaint filed against him by Thalia Silverlake; the guards, of course, had ignored it, but from the way the girl looked at him over her shoulder, Robin knew she had cause to be worried, and in turn it worried _her_. The man was the tallest amongst them, and one of the strongest as well, likely able to overpower nearly anyone with brute strength. The moment he realised that would spell doom for all of them, and Robin's palms grew sweaty just thinking about it. Glass, on the other hand, had less muscle, but twice the ego, and an eloquence that could rival Saiph's silver tongue. People like him took pleasure in convincing others they were less than human, and Robin had not run all the way from 9 to find herself stuck with another repulsive, depraved, perverted excuse for a—

"Robin."

There was a presence at her side, and a voice, gentle but firm, a strong, silk rope thrown to her so she might pull herself out of her thoughts. Robin knew what further instructions would come without their needing to be said.

 _Close your eyes. Deep breath. Reach out and feel your surroundings. Plant yourself in the present._

She followed each step to the letter, fingers wrapping around the top bar of the balcony, grasping for a familiar sensation. But the metal was not cool and hard as she remembered; it was warm, and slick, and smelled of rust.

 _Blood._

Her hand jerked back, as though burned, and her eyes shot open as she retreated from the bar, straight into the person at her side. That couldn't have been real; was she hallucinating again? Trapped in another waking nightmare?

"Robin."

The same calm voice as before, and this time, Robin looked towards the speaker. Two blue eyes gazed back at her, serene like the still waters she'd dreamed of seeing in 4.

She latched onto that old hope. Maybe now it was less than impossible, but at times, it was all she had. That, and her sisters.

Ashna raised her hand as Robin focused in on her, their silent gesture for _may I touch you?_ Robin nodded, breathing deeply as Ashna took her hand in hers.

"You drew blood," she said, opening Robin's fingers to see her palm pierced by four crescent moon cuts. "Again."

Robin looked at her nails, long and unkempt and coated in red, and she scolded herself for instantly feeling relieved. Hurting herself wasn't something she did anymore, for the others' sake.

But at least the blood hadn't been in her head.

Ashna let Robin's hand drop, uttering a small sigh. "Twiddle your thumbs. Jiggle your leg. Grit your teeth. Anything else but this."

She nodded. "Sorry."

"It's a reflex, Robin, not your fault. I just don't want you to keep getting hurt."

"I won't. It's just been . . ." Her eyes flitted to the boy in the corner down below, long black hair not quite masking his smug expression as he watched the other prisoners. She looked away. ". . . stressful."

"I could get Ryla and Millet, if you'd like."

Bless her, she thought Robin was only worried about their other sisters.

As she should have been. Robin bit her lip, pain in payment for the guilt she now felt. Ashna didn't fail to notice.

"Thumbs," she said, taking Robin's hands and pushing them towards her chest. "Twiddle them. I'll be back with the others in a minute."

"You don't have to—"

She was already off. Robin had to smile at that. Without her sisters, she never would have lasted more than a week in here.

Speaking of, there was one she had been unforgivably ignoring.

"And how are you doing?" she asked, stepping away from the balcony and back into the cell at the end of the second floor row. Two identical cots sat against the walls inside, one empty, and one filled by a girl who looked up at Robin's entrance.

"Fine," Winnow said, wrapping her arms further around her knees as if that could hide the lie. Before Robin could prod her further, the younger girl's gaze darted to Robin's blood-streaked palms. "Your hands . . ."

"I'm fine," she said quickly, sitting on the unoccupied cot. "I've had much worse."

It was the truth, but Winnow still looked at her like she was hiding something. The girl's dark eyes and quiet demeanor hid a mind far too intelligent for the rest of them to keep up with.

"You're worried," she whispered into her knees. "I though, without the guards . . . are things going to go south?"

Robin opened her mouth to respond, but hesitated. Could she really promise everything would be okay, when their fellow prisoners could be rebels or trained soldiers? They had a few skills of their own, sure, but how could they compare to someone stronger? Like Felix Twisp, or Saiph Sarabande, or even Glass . . .

By the time she thought up a response for Winnow, her silence had already said too much. The younger girl's head sunk lower into her knees, arms wrapped around herself like a vise. Robin thought she saw her shoulders shake.

She bit the inside of her cheek again— _idiot_ , she was supposed to know Winnow was especially sensitive. Her misstep had to be fixed, but the moment she stood to approach her sister, they were interrupted by a much louder, more dynamic presence.

"Winnie!" Ryla entered the cell like a tornado, unsettling everything in her path as she blew past Robin and collapsed on the other cot, forcing Winnow to lower her legs so Ryla could put her head in the younger girl's lap. "Haven't been cooped up here this whole time, have you?"

Winnow flinched at the unexpected contact, but for whatever reason, she had always seemed more at ease with Ryla than anyone else. Still, she couldn't find the words to answer before Ryla shifted her attention, smirking at Robin.

"Mother Hen. Apparently you decide our bedtime now?"

"She didn't decide anything." Ashna appeared, arms crossed and lips pursed, in the cell doorway, Millet at her side. "I wanted you up here before you did something stupid."

"Ash, dear, we all know you don't have a mind of your own. Besides, what if I _wanted_ to do something stupid?" Ryla's grin was devilish as she winked up at Winnow. "Sure, that Nine boy isn't the sharpest tool in the shed, but I'm sure he's got a nice set of abs under that jumpsuit, and that's saying nothing of his—"

"Ryla, stop." Robin shook her head as Ashna and Millet came to sit on either side of her. "You don't have to do this. Not anymore."

"I don't have the foggiest idea what you're talking about. Do what? We were just down there to make friends, weren't we, Mill?"

Millet gave Robin a smile, much more cheerful and genuine than Ryla's. "Yeah, it was great! They're all so cool and nice, I—"

"Mill likes a Nine boy too. The little twelve-year-old," Ryla interjected, giggling as Millet blushed.

"He's really sweet!" she protested. "And his sister is awesome, so fearless, you should have seen her confront those older girls. She wasn't scared at all."

"Did she have a reason to be?" Robin asked without thinking, hands already tightening back into fists.

Ryla rolled her eyes. "No. Calm down, Mother Hen. No more guards, remember? You don't have to keep seeing everyone as a threat."

"Then you don't have to keep flirting with everybody."

"Ever think that I might do it just because I like it?"

Ryla was good, but Robin still knew it was a lie. No one with their background could like that. Ryla would never admit it, preferring to pretend she enjoyed doing something she was forced to rather than regretting it along with the rest of them, but there was no need for that now. The guards had gone.

Regardless, Robin knew Ryla well enough to know giving her orders wouldn't get the anywhere. "Look, you can do whatever you'd like," she said, trying not to sound huffy. "I just don't want you doing anything you don't want to for us."

Ryla sat up, sliding her hand under the mattress. "Funny, that never seemed to be a problem for you before." She withdrew a small, rectangular package from beneath the cot, smiling as she offered it around their small circle. "Crackers, anyone?"

Robin drew a sharp breath, eyes darting to the doorway. No one could see them up there, but still, it was better to be safe than sorry.

"Put that away," she hissed, even as Millet reached out a hand to take the crackers. "We had dinner tonight. Save them for when we don't."

"You really think they're serious?" Winnow, lap now free, curled back into her fetal position, chin pressed against her knees. "You think the rations are going to dwindle until . . ."

"I just think we shouldn't risk it. Don't worry, we'll be fine—thanks to Ryla," Robin added, an offering of peace to her older sister.

Ryla only shrugged, but Robin could tell she appreciated the words. "Don't mention it. Won't help much anyway, if it really comes down to it. People will kill for whatever they can get, once they start going hungry."

The certainty in her voice and the sudden hardening of her expression was alarming, but then Robin had to take her history into account. Ryla rarely talked about her life before she'd come to the tavern—they never called it home, because that wasn't what it was, and they never called it a brothel, because that was too close what it was—but Robin knew she'd come off the streets, unlike the rest of them. And she'd come willingly.

Ryla had joked about it, and could continue to do so all she liked, but Robin knew it had been bad out there. Bad enough that selling herself to a woman known for turning young girls into prostitutes had been the lesser of two evils.

Oh, but according to Ceres, they weren't whores. They were Hoares, sweet little waitresses for the Hoarefrost Inn, one of the most profitable taverns in 9's north, where "we may harden your wheat stalks, but we also cool your drinks!"

Ceres had thought she'd been so clever with that, when she couldn't even spell her own tavern name properly. But it hadn't mattered, in the end; the 'Frost had all melted away.

Yet here they were, trapped once more, and from the look on Ryla's face, there was still the threat of others taking advantage of them.

Robin didn't even need to bite her cheek this time; the phantom pain on the back of her neck was enough. Skin prickled and stung right below the nape of her neck, where she knew a miniscule "H" had been seared, to be carried with her until the day she died. A brand. A logo, as though they were nothing more than products to be bought and sold.

In her mind's eye, she saw Ceres. Her superior smirk, and the smirk of every man who had ever touched her. She'd rid herself of them, but now there was Glass, who carried that same air about him, and the others—who knew what they'd do?

No. She was done. Seventeen long years she'd waited to take the reins in her life, and after everything they'd been through, she wasn't giving them up now.

"So we don't tell anyone about this," Robin said, gesturing to the mattress under which Ryla had hidden her stash of extra rations. "And if they find out, we fight."

Millet frowned. "I'm sure it won't come to that."

"Maybe not. But just in case."

"We don't know the first thing about fighting," Winnow said.

"No, but Ryla does."

The girl in question laughed, perhaps remembering their few failed training sessions back when they'd been at the tavern. Robin ha been desperate to learn something that would make her feel less powerless, and Ryla had been surprisingly willing to teach her, but Ceres had discovered them too soon, and that had been the end of it. "Nothing fancy. Never did us much good."

"We're still here, aren't we?"

She did pause at that. "I suppose so. All right, Mother Hen, I can teach you all a thing or two, but I'm not going to stop my business with Sarabande."

"Whatever you'd like."

Ryla smiled. "It's not about what I like. It's _never_ been about what I like. It's about what'll keep us alive, and as it stands, he looks likeliest to be the leader of whatever the hell goes on in here. It's good to get in on that early. You could help with that, you know."

"I can't."

The words came out shakier than Robin had intended them, and she cursed herself for it. Now was not the time to be weak. She'd spent enough of her life holding herself back, until Ashna had supported her and Ryla had taught her some tricks. How to fight, _and_ how to seduce, so she'd be ready for any occasion.

She'd done well, for a while. But once she'd gotten it into her head that she had left that life behind, she couldn't go back to it. Not when she still dreamed of freedom.

"I'm not asking you to sleep with anybody. Panem knows I don't plan on doing it—I'm pretty sure, for all his blustering, Sarabande has never so much as held a girl's hand that wasn't his cousin." Ryla nudged Winnow at her side, giggling before turning back to Robin. "You just need to get close."

"With Smithfield?" The thought turned Robin's stomach. He seemed decent, sure, but it was always those ones that were the worst. She'd almost rather take her chances with Twisp or Glass.

"No, I'm pretty sure he's under Sarabande's thumb—at least, for now. Let me worry about them. But did you see the new group that cropped up?"

"Carlyn and Camille Colbert, Thisbe Von Patten, Ardelia Reid," Robin recited without hesitation, a hint of surprise in her tone. If Ryla had noticed them too, she was more observant than she let on.

"They might be worrisome."

"I'll keep an eye on them, then," Robin said, giving Ryla a small smile of thanks. She didn't trust that group much more than the others; all of the girls looked ready for a fight, and judging by the way Robin had occasionally caught Carlyn and Thisbe glancing their way, she might not be entirely safe from the same unwanted attention Ryla got from Sarabande, but it was still the better alternative. Sometimes, her older sister surprised her with her thoughtfulness.

"I can help as well." Ashna, on the other hand, was no surprise as she chimed in, straightening protectively at Robin's side. "Camille Colbert and I are the same age, she might be more willing to talk to me."

"And what can I do?" Millet asked, bouncing slightly on the cot.

Robin smiled at the younger girl's eagerness. "Just keep doing what you're doing. Make friends with the younger ones, see what they think of all this."

"And don't forget to mention we've got the more competent leader, if they've yet to pick a side," Ryla added, winking at Robin. "Numbers can make or break a fight."

At her side, Winnow stirred, pulling her head out of her knees long enough to murmur, "I'll help, too."

Robin could feel her expression softening just looking at the tiny girl. Winnow may have been sixteen, but she had always been considered their youngest sister; Millet was a completely separate case, bouncy and bubbly, untouched by the hardships of their lives, more of a best friend than a relative. She'd had her fair share of suffering as well, but not to the extent of the rest of them, and none had reacted more strongly than Winnow. Robin would rather seduce every prisoner in this cellblock before she made her younger sister step out of her comfort zone.

She opened her mouth to say as much, but Ryla beat her to the punch. "You, my dear Winnie, have the most important job of all. You have to stay here."

Despite looking like she'd very much enjoy that, Winnow swallowed hard and said, "I'm not a kid, Ry."

"Would I give a kid the most important job?"

"I can . . . talk to people too."

"I know." Ryla shuffled closer to Winnow, putting her arm around the younger girl's shoulders. Robin marvelled at the sight; even she couldn't do that without making Winnow jump. "But Winnie, someone's got to stay here to watch our stash. We can't have anyone rooting around and finding it. You've kept quiet up 'til now, no one will think twice if you stay in here. If Millet stays, she'll attract friends like flies."

"Are you saying I'm not friendly."

"I'm saying you're an antisocial little hermit and you like it that way. Or am I wrong?"

"Ryla," Ashna said, her tone meant to scold, but, to everyone's surprise, Winnow uttered a quiet chuckle.

"Yeah, okay. As long as it helps."

"Excellent." Ryla clapped Winnow on the back, looking over at Ashna with an eyebrow raised. The older girl shook her head and turned away, much to Ryla's amusement. She was smirking as she turned back to Robin. "So, have we missed anything, Mother Hen?"

"Just keep yourselves safe," Robin said, looking at each girl in turn as they faced her. "And don't be afraid. You're the strongest, bravest girls I know. We got ourselves out once—we can do it again."

Ryla smirked, though her eyes were lit with genuine appreciation. "Remember, you can't go burning this place down until _after_ we're out of it."

Robin gave her an identical smile. "That's the plan."

Ryla clapped her hands. "Wonderful. Firecrackers on three?"

It was her silly team name for them, but Robin appreciated it, especially as each girl put her hands in the middle of their circle, giggling as they whispered, " _Firecrackers_!" No one flinched as their fingers brushed against each other; on this night, they weren't Hoares, or whores, or anything else Ceres and District 9 had made them. Ryla's words had imbued them all with an optimism Robin hadn't felt since she'd stood basking in the warmth of flames on that dark night so many weeks ago.

They'd freed themselves then; they could sure as hell do it again.

* * *

 _For this freedom_  
 _I have given all I had_  
 _For this darkness_  
 _I gave my light_  
 _For this wisdom_  
 _I have lost my innocence_  
 _Take my petals_  
 _And cover me with the night_

* * *

 _Note: Thank you for reading. I decided to put this update out early since my schedule is changing once more. My weekends are shifting from Saturday/Sunday to Wednesday/Thursday, so updates will be coming every Wednesday or Thursday instead. Sorry for the confusion._


	12. World Gone Mad

_All these half destroyed lives_  
 _Aren't as bad as the seem_  
 _And then I see blood and I hear people scream_  
 _Then I wake up and it's just another bad dream_

* * *

It was growing quiet in the cellblock. The lights were still on, but people were starting to drift off regardless. Or, trying to. The big group by the washrooms was still being loud, just enough to keep the baby up, who was crying in her sister's arms in the furthest cell from the clamour.

Felix Twisp groaned and rolled over on his cot, trying to block out the noise. It only increased. From the sound of it, the six-year-old was in tears now too.

Great.

He stood up, half-dazed from nearly falling asleep, and stumbled into the empty cot across from him. Cursing, he found his way to the door and made no effort to be subtle as he slammed it once, twice, three times, letting each metal _clang!_ reverberate through the cellblock. The baby didn't stop, but the young boy did, and all the other prisoners followed his lead as they stuck their heads up to stare at Felix.

"I have no idea what time it is," he started to his waiting audience. "But I'm pretty sure it's an ungodly fucking hour. Sleep or shut up, just have some damn courtesy."

All was silent as he slammed the door one more time and went back to his cot. The springs creaked as he collapsed onto the old mattress, but over their sound, he could hear the chatter pick up once more. Quieter, but still there.

 _Teenagers_.

He'd hoped that would work. Hadn't they listened to him earlier? Or were they ignoring him because they had _leaders_ now, idiot boys and girls pretending they were old and wise while they threw their weight around. Felix could hear Saiph Sarabande's obnoxious voice from here, and it made him want to punch something.

Maybe he should. Could it be he'd lost some respect by comforting Calla earlier—appearing soft? Damn it, he knew he shouldn't have gotten involved. Loyalty to his districtmen was all well and good, but it wasn't going to help him much in here, especially if he started revealing weakness left, right, and centre. Her mention of family had made a crack in the wall he'd worked so hard to build, and he had a feeling he was going to be regretting that for a while.

Still, Calla's smile afterward had made everything . . . sort of worth it. He as glad at least that she'd found the courage to return to her friends, annoying though they may be. His head rose, and his lip quirked slightly at the sight of her bright copper hair, bobbing up and down as she nodded from her spot between the 9 girl and—

Felix froze as a cold glare hit him like a spear of ice to the heart. Two amber eyes were focused on him with all the ferocity of a leopard stalking its prey, though they moved as soon as his gaze locked on them. The hate lingered, though—the hate, and the fear.

He watched Thalia Silverlake attempt to return to her new friends' conversation; from the short, one-word responses she looked to be mouthing, it was clear the tension was still there. As it had been every time Felix had caught her watching him, which had been at least once a day since the train had been ambushed.

He knew the exact reason, too. Still, he could have left it alone. _Should_ have left it alone.

But some stupid, nagging sensation in his head kept him awake. Even as the talkative ones finally started to fall asleep, he remained alert, keeping a subtle eye on the group by the washrooms. All were lying on their mattresses, motionless, but he was willing to bet not all were out cold. Especially with Saiph Sarabande snoring like a monster truck with engine problems. That had to be irritating for anyone still up; surely soon she would . . .

Yes, there was movement. Thalia was stirring, sitting up as blearily as Felix had earlier on. With a sleepy glare at the boy, she rose to her feet and made her way towards the washroom, easing the door shut behind her.

She hadn't even glanced Felix's way. Perhaps, in her befuddled state, she'd forgotten about him.

Time to make his move.

He clambered off the cot, reached for his cell door and, much quieter than before, slid it open. No one moved that he could see, though not all asleep; Thisbe Von Patten and her new friend from 1 were talking quietly in the opposite corner. Felix kept an eye on them as he moved for the washrooms, anticipating an interruption at any moment. Ardelia Reid was still awake as well, and the two had lived up to their professions as guards when it had come to Thalia on the train. Reid in particular had seen every move as a threat, but now neither she nor Von Patten were keeping tabs on the other Three. Good.

Silent as a shadow, Felix made his way over to the washrooms, taking care to not disturb any of the kids sleeping nearby. Sarabande's snores covered his footsteps as he went; Jabez Smithfield did stir as Felix stepped over him, but he shrugged off the other boy's actions immediately and rolled around to return to sleep. After all, there was nothing suspicious about a guy heading for the washroom.

Nevertheless, Felix paused before the door to check for the eyes of others. The four girls in the corner still weren't looking his way, and they were the only ones awake besides the group of five up on the second level. Beyond the railing, Felix could just barely see movement in one cell, but it didn't concern him. Up until now, the beautiful girls had kept to their own business, as he did to his.

And this, this was his business. Unfinished since the train, and now something he needed to take care of.

He opened the washroom door and slipped through the crack, closing it softly behind him. With the snoring gone, all was quiet save the sound of running water as a girl splashed her face at the other end of the room.

Felix stepped forward just as Thalia looked up. He saw her face in the mirror, blonde hair stringy and wet, plastered across her eyes, but not quite enough to block her peripheral vision. In an instant, her gaze was on his reflection.

A gasp. Scrambling footsteps as she whirled around. Hands raised in an instant, fists clenched in a way that would make even an amateur fighter cry.

"Get out," she spat, voice a good deal more menacing then her wide eyes. "Or I'll kill you."

He couldn't help it. "Not with that technique. You're liable to break your thumbs more than anything else."

Her fingers, curled around her thumbs, relaxed to instead grip the sink behind her as she stepped back, eyes darting to the walls. "I'll tell your secret, then."

"My what?"

"Six doesn't hire mechanics under twenty," she said, glare snapping back to him. "Not for passenger trains. And you don't look eighteen. I can get you kicked right out of here to the adult holdings."

Once, the threat might have worried him. Now, his lips curved in a humourless smile. "Fine. Got no reason to be here."

She took a deep breath. "I'll scream. If you don't leave right now, I'll—"

"There's no need for this." He raised his hands, an intended gesture of peace, but when she flinched, he let them drop. "Look, I'm not here to . . . do anything. I just wanted to apologise."

She snorted; her deadly expression never changed. "What is that, a distraction technique they teach you in murder school? I wasn't born yesterday."

"Look, this was all just a big misunderstanding."

"Really? _Really_?" She was growing hysterical now, hands shaking as she formed fists once more. "Holding a gun to a stranger's head and preparing to pull the trigger, that's what you call a _misunderstanding_?"

Well, when she said it like that, it sounded . . . a lot worse than Felix had been trying to convince himself it was.

He winced as the memories came back. The dark engine room. A gun, heavy in his hand. Chest aching as his heart pounded against his ribs. Palms wet, throat choked, stomach heaving, all while the girl before him stared with wide, terrified eyes . . .

He grabbed his right arm, gritting his teeth as pain flared up once more along his skin. The burns had mostly healed since that night, but every so often, he felt the presence of the hot coals once more as the train flew off its rails.

Worse than the physical pain was the mental. Knowing those coals, that ambush, had been the only thing stopping him from becoming a murderer, it made him want to crumble. How close he had come . . .

He breathed deeply and faced Thalia once more, focusing on the anger in her face and trying to forget the fear he'd once seen there. "It was a really horrible mistake. Believe me, I know."

"A _mistake_ —"

"I'm not asking for your forgiveness," he continued, suddenly finding himself unable to look at her. "Please, hate me. Just don't . . . fear me."

"I'm not afraid of you," she snapped, a bit too quickly to be entirely believable.

"I know what it's like spending your life looking over your shoulder. Hell, all of Panem probably knows it. It's exhausting." His voice was quiet now, heavy with the memories of a past best left unshared. "And I don't want to be the cause of that for you. So if you think I'm going to finish the job or whatever, know that I won't. I won't come near you ever again."

Her eyes narrowed, but at least now there was some milder suspicion mixed in with the repulsion. "And why should I trust you?"

"You don't have to. At all. I just wanted to let you know. So . . ." He slapped his hands against his legs. "I'll be going now."

He had his back turned and his hand resting on the doorknob when she called after him, "What was the misunderstanding?"

"Huh?"

"Nearly killing someone—on _purpose_ —is a hell of a misunderstanding," she said, crossing her arms and leaning back against the sink. "If I'm going to believe you for even a second, I want to hear the story."

"It's long and complicated—"

"And made up?"

He sighed. "No."

She waited, fingers tapping against her arm, while he rocked back and forth on his feet. The details weren't something he wanted to bring up, not to a girl he knew, and definitely not after he'd already cracked once with Calla. Prison wasn't a place to make yourself look vulnerable.

But then, he had seen Thalia at her lowest point, right before she thought she was about to die. Every detail of her expression in that moment was etched into his brain, and he'd likely never forget it until the day he died.

He owed her—at least, something in return.

"Just after I made Junior Mechanic on the train," he said, turning back around, "I was . . . approached by one of Six's rebel leaders." She didn't need to know the violent details of their encounter. "They found out I'd be on the train and 'volunteered' me for some stupid revenge mission on a scientist from Three. Some traitor to the districts."

"What?" Thalia blanched. "Me?"

"I don't know. Maybe? You looked kind of like the picture, but it was old, and I didn't pay much attention to it. There was supposed to only be one person getting on in Three anyways, I thought it'd be easy, but then there were three of you and things got . . . complicated."

"You thought I was working for the Capitol?" Thalia continued as though she hadn't heard him. "I'm _not_ working for the Capitol."

"I know. I don't think any of you are. The woman who approached me was crazy, there was this bombing, and she was out of her mind, and—"

"And you _listened_ to her?"

"She threatened me. She threatened my . . ." No, he wouldn't think of them. Nor of the fact that he'd been willing to omit murder for their sake, and they'd still wound up dead. "Look, you have to understand, I didn't have a choice."

"No, _you_ have to understand," Thalia hissed, fear and anger back in her eyes. "I'm _not_ with the Capitol."

"I know—"

She stopped him by striding forward, taking him forcefully by the arm. "You _don't_. Do you know how dangerous it would be for me if that rumour got our in here? With Captain Anarchist and all his followers out there?" She jerked her head towards the washroom door, shaking him for extra effect—or was her hand trembling of its own accord? "Those people can't live without a scapegoat. If they can't take their anger out on the Capitol, they'll find someone else, and I'm sure as hell not letting it be me."

"I told you the rebels were wrong—"

"And you're going to tell the kids out there even less. I don't need them even _thinking_ the word 'traitor' in the same sentence as my name, and you are _not_ going to give them the idea." Her grip tightened. "Understand? Or I really will—"

"Is there a problem in here?"

Thalia stopped short, staring at someone over Felix's shoulder. In the mirror, Felix could see the dark-skinned leader of the girls from 9 staring daggers at them from the washroom doorway.

He turned back to her, mouth opening to reassure her that Thalia's hold on him meant nothing and he was fine, when he stopped short. The girl was glaring at _him_ , not Thalia, as though he was the one cutting off the circulation in her arm.

"No," he said slowly. "We're fine."

The girl kept watching him, expression so accusatory Felix felt like he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "What are you doing in here, then?"

"Isn't this a communal washroom?"

"You don't look to be using it."

"And she does?" Felix said, nodding to Thalia, who quickly let go of his arm.

The girl's gaze never wavered, nor did she respond. Instead, she stepped aside, letting the door swing open to admit more newcomers to the washroom: the other 9 girls—her 'sisters'—as well as Von Patten and Reid, the 1 girls just behind them.

Caught in the crosshairs of now nine stares, Felix felt his jaw clench. What was this?

"Tsk, tsk, tsk." The flirty one, Ryla, sashayed forward, giving him a smile that was somehow colder than any of the other girl's impassive expressions. "Following girls into the washroom, are we? I know this is a prison, dear, but please, have some class."

Felix tensed. "That's not what this is."

"You'll forgive me if we don't believe _you_ ," she said, turning to Thalia expectantly.

"Thalia," Ardelia called from the doorway. "Are you all right?"

All eyes turned on her, Felix's included. He didn't realise it at first, but he was holding his breath.

This looked bad. Every girl looked set for a fight, some even eager for it, and he had no illusions about his abilities against ten opponents. Youth, height, it didn't matter if you had numbers. He'd been jumped enough times by street kids in his neighbourhood to know that.

His fists clenched at his sides. Ryla laughed when she noticed, but he ignored her, mind whirring. Why wouldn't Thalia frame him for something? He'd nearly killed her—it was pay back, and well-deserved. He couldn't fault her for it, but he also couldn't afford to be injured when their prison situation was so precarious.

Injured, or worse.

Ryla was in front of him, her leader striding to her side, and both were also forming fists much better than Thalia's had been. Reid and Von Patten were moving forward too; from the looks of Von Patten's face, this wasn't her first fight of the night. That would be where he had to strike first: her nose. It looked broken, he could possibly take her out of the fight with one hit, and then—

"No," Thalia said, walking past the group and towards the door. "I'm fine."

Everyone paused, surprised, but she didn't wait around for questions. The door was swinging closed behind her before Felix could so much as open his mouth.

His hands relaxed, and his heart sunk. Great, she'd done something worse than get him in trouble—she'd been the bigger person. He wholeheartedly deserved a beating, yet he'd still thought to hurt the girls who would deliver it; he wasn't entitled to a pass from that, but Thalia had given him one anyway.

Her face flashed before his mind, terrified once more as he held a gun to her head. _Fuck_ , he was a terrible person.

"You heard her," he said gruffly, hoping to hide his feelings with a dark scowl. "She's fine. I'm fine. We're all fucking fine."

He made for the door, storming after Thalia. Once again, his hand was on the knob when he was stopped.

This time, not by words. The remaining 3 girls, on either side of him, had each grabbed one of his arms in grips tighter than stone. His burns stung beneath Von Patten's crushing hold.

"Stalk any girl again," the 9 leader said, coming up behind him to hiss in his ear, "And it won't be a warning we give you next time."

He slowed his breathing, fighting to stay calm. "I said that's not what this was."

"I don't care. Do it again, and we'll castrate you."

That specific threat came out of nowhere, and it took Felix a moment to process it. By the time he had, the Threes had let go, shoving him towards the door.

For a moment, he turned back, a sarcastic reply on the tip of his tongue. This girl was just as bad as Sarabande, playing leader just so she could get her hands on some power. She was worse, even; at least Sarabande hadn't been aggressive so far.

But Felix wasn't just facing her when he looked over his shoulder—he was staring down nine girls, and all were shuffling forward, as though itching for a reason to start something. He couldn't afford to get hurt. Nor would he give them the satisfaction.

So he turned back and marched through the door, uncomfortably aware of their eyes still on him. His cell called to him, ironically promising safety, and he hurried towards it, forgetting to watch out for the kids on the ground and stepping on one as he went. Half-awake cursing followed him back to his cell, but no one actually made a move. Even so, he closed his door with enough force to slam it as soon as he reached his cot.

The lights were still on in the cellblock, and he could clearly see the girls exiting the washroom, each one keeping their eyes on him as they moved over to Thalia. The leader was impassive, but Ryla winked at him, and the young one from 1 was smirking like they'd just won some big victory over him.

 _Fucking teenagers._

He gritted his teeth and collapsed on his cot, face-first into the thin pillow they were each provided. That lasted for all two seconds before he rose once more and peeked over his shoulder to see if the girls were still watching him.

They were.

He cursed as he dove back onto the mattress, trying in vain to ignore the urge to look back through the bars of his door. Damn it, hadn't he been through enough already? He didn't need to deal with an army of psychotic girls after him.

But then, he should have known something like this would go down. As soon as the voice over the intercom had made its announcement, he knew he was screwed. Hell, he was screwed the moment he set foot on a train for the first time as a Junior Mechanic. That had been the end of it all.

Or rather, the beginning. The beginning of the end.

* * *

 _And I can't help myself by feeling sorry_  
 _Because I gave up every chance I had_  
 _It's not a movement, it's just another fad_  
 _Like a cry for help in a world gone mad!_

* * *

 _Note: Thank you for reading, and for all your feedback. Apologies for the late update; I made a change to my plan and decided to add this chapter in. With this, we've reached the end of the "introduction" stage of the story - a bit like the reapings in a normal SYOT. To formally end this part, the next chapter will be an interlude, taking us back to the train ride that started all this. Then, we'll move into the next section of this story._


	13. Interlude: O, Death

_Well what is this that I can't see_  
 _With ice cold hands takin' hold of me_

* * *

 _Revenant._ A rechristened passenger train with the shortest, proudest history in District 6. So named by virtue of its passage along Panem's now infamous ghost tracks, and for the old word from one of the lost languages: _revenir._ Return, because every day, hopeful refugees prayed it would.

And it had. Even as the districts began to fall, one by one, _Revenant_ continued its journey. It didn't matter that 13 had been obliterated, nor did the train pause when 3 turned tail and ran from the war effort. As long as 6 held, and 4 remained a safe haven for those seeking passage away from Panem, the evacuations would not cease.

Every one of _Revenant_ 's crew members was given the option of disembarking after they'd made one full journey. The trains were vulnerable, one of the most dangerous methods of transport, as the districts had regretfully discovered after the hijacking of a railway carrying a number of highly influential rebels, including Mayor Aldrich Opulence of 1 and Captain Manuel Smithfield of 10. It was hardly right to ask soldiers to serve continuously on the lines, let alone everyday men and women. Yet no matter how many trips they made, not one crew member stepped off.

Until March of the war's last year came. Many districts had surrendered or fallen: 3, 10, 12, 5. Everyone in Panem was anxious, and rightfully so.

Dray Jalopy was the first to turn in his notice. He was young, a Junior Mechanic with his whole life ahead of him, and his girlfriend found out she was pregnant just after he'd gotten her on the latest run to 4. He couldn't leave her behind, nor was he expected to. A Junior Mechanic was not a vital position; there were hundreds back in 6 with the qualifications, and at least a dozen still itching to serve their district despite the risks.

One such boy made the cut. Having just turned twenty, he'd never before been qualified to work on a passenger train, especially one as prestigious, and unique, as _Revenant_. Designed after the steam engines of old to avoid any takeover attempts by enemy hackers, every calculation had to be exact, and every gear fit perfectly in place; there was no calling for help if they broke down before they reached their destination. But the boy passed the hurried application process with flying colours, and though he was younger even than Dray, by 6's law he was old enough to understand the danger of his decision.

He didn't care. If working on _Revenant_ helped save the people of his home, then it was worth it. More than worth it, for he knew his parents would have been proud if they could have seen him at that moment.

Speaking of family, if becoming _Revenant_ 's newest Junior Mechanic meant he could finally secure seats for his siblings on the train out of town, he sure as hell couldn't pass the job up.

They were all so excited. His sister, crafting her own bathing suits from rags; his brother, marching up and down their home like a train guard in a car. And him, in his shiny new mechanic's suit, a small but brilliant silver pin on his chest that immediately earned him everyone's utmost respect.

But with this respect came expectations. Expectations he thought he could fulfill, until they transcended the duties of a train mechanic.

Everything changed when the first bomb dropped on one of 6's major war bases. People panicked. They thought they would be the next 13. Rebels in other parts of the district disbanded almost immediately, terrified large numbers would draw the Capitol's eye. They disappeared into the big cities, knowing even their cruel dictators weren't ruthless enough to blow up so many innocents. Sure, it had happened with 13, but that had been different. It had to be.

No one thought about the rebels who'd survived the base bombing. Who could blame them? There was hardly a chance there was anyone left.

There was. Only a handful, many too injured to pose any sort of threat. One, though, was filled with the same fire she had watched engulf her friends and family. Injured, crazed by pain and loss, she ran until her lungs held no breath, and then she ran further, sustained by a single thought that burst through her mind like the bomb, over and over and over again. The last words she'd heard from her supervisor, if you didn't count the screams.

 _3 has betrayed us. Who else could hijack one of our own trains? Stay alert, Rook—who knows what else they've given those Capitol bastards._

Fueled by hate, she ran until her wounds looked set to kill her. Desperate to keep herself and the rebellion alive, she broke into the first house she came to, intent on threatening the residents until they helped her.

How unfortunate, she'd thought, when she found only what amounted to three kids in a hovel, not an ounce of serious medical knowledge amongst them.

How fortunate, she later realised when she saw the oldest's gleaming silver pin. Perhaps her life was forfeit, but revenge was not out of the question yet.

Thus began the path to _Revenant_ 's grim and gruesome fate.

* * *

"You know your mark?"

"I think you've shoved that picture in my face enough. Or did you want to sear it into my eyelids?"

Sisyphia Rook gave her unwilling accomplice an unimpressed frown. Her cheek screamed in pain as burnt flesh stretched beneath her wide-brimmed hat. "I once spent two months pouring over information before even setting foot outside the base. And that was for a scouting mission only. I need to know you're prepared."

"Her hair is red. Her eyes are purple. She's 7'6" with a stomach like a school bus. Oh, and her name is Bitch McFuckYou." Felix Twisp turned towards her, eyes narrowed in a blazing glare to match her own. "Did I get that right? Your expression says 'no'. Looks like I'm not prepared. So we're calling this off?"

"I'm warning you now, boy—"

"I know. You don't have to say it again."

Even without the spoken threat, his eyes darted to his ever-so-oblivious siblings. They were barely visible through the crowd in the station, standing on the fringe to say some tearful goodbyes to friends who had yet to book a ride out of town. Neither the boy nor the girl had any idea what was really going on with their older brother. Hell, the mouthy one, Nicholas, he idolised _her_. A rebel leader in his very own home, enlisting his very own family; it was his dream come true.

Maybe she should have given him the mission instead.

Sisyphia studied the face of her current accomplice, and she had to admit, she hated what she saw. Twisp's jaw was unclenched, and the fresh lines in his forehead had all but disappeared. The moment she'd first thought to threaten his siblings, the stress had turned his into a face as old as hers, and now, just as quickly, it had found its youth once more. For the first time since they'd met, he was relaxed around her.

He thought he was getting away.

Threats could only take her so far. Twisp had only agreed to her terms so long as his siblings were still permitted to travel to 4, and, soft-hearted idiot that she was, she'd agreed. Now, she was about to lose her two hostages; the only string she had to pull was the vague threat of unnamed contacts in 4 who would know if the job hadn't been done, but even that had run its course. The boy's expression said it all: she'd lost.

"Hey," she said suddenly, grabbing his arm without thinking. His gaze returned to her, suspicious but no longer afraid. "I was serious about the rebels in Four."

"I don't doubt it."

"They're ruthless. You think I'm bad? They'll skin you alive and filet you like a fish."

"So you've said. Over and over. The more you repeat it, the truer it gets, right?"

She was in big trouble if he had the nerve to be smart.

"What's more, I've got contacts on the train to make sure you do it."

His brow rose. "Do you now? That's new."

He didn't believe her. She didn't even believe herself; all her contacts had burned when the bomb had dropped. But the idea had come to her, out of nowhere, spurred on by something in her line of sight.

No, some _one._ Over the boy's shoulder, there was another, red-faced and embarrassed as he was swarmed by a crowd of children. Some adults were even partaking, approaching him to shake his hand and pat him on the back. Now what kind of teenager commanded that respect?

. . . Ah. Sisyphia thought she'd recognised him.

"Yes," she said, turning Twisp around and pointing through the crowd. "See that boy over there?"

Her hand was on his back, and she felt his spine snap straight when his eyes followed hers. "Yes," came the tense reply.

"Know who he is?"

"Yes."

"Know who he works for?"

"If you have a rebel on board," Twisp interrupted, turning back to glare at her, "Why not get him to do your work?"

"Who says he's not?" She was making it up as she went, spinning lies as quickly as they popped into his head. "We've had a lot of turncoats, and yours isn't the only one trying to make a break for it. He's handling another case, a group of five that requires all his attention—but make no mistake, he can certainly bump that up to seven if . . . provoked."

Another glance back at his siblings. This time, the jaw was clenched. The lines were back.

She had him.

"I said I'd do it, didn't I?" Twisp said gruffly, shoving her hand away from him, but behind the surliness, there was the real fear of a boy contemplating his first act of taking a life. "So it'll get done."

"Glad to hear it."

It was doubtful he caught that, already forcing his way back through the crowd to his siblings. She'd hit a nerve.

 _Good._ All she had to do was follow through with it.

Except she was bullshitting everything, and the rebel she'd just seen was one she knew, while not personally familiar with him, would never so much as consider harming a couple adorable eleven-year-olds. His father certainly wouldn't have, and judging by the way the boy held himself, they were similar in so many ways. Hell, he even looked like Manuel, if Sisyphia glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.

Now, however, she kept Jabez Smithfield in the dead centre of her gaze, eyes locked as she made her way towards him. The crowd parted around her, less out of respect than pity and disgust. Even in this war-torn time, a disfigured creature still turned the stomach.

A month ago, her ego would have suffered. Now, she only praised her new look for its ability to scatter the small crowd that had formed around the rebel's son.

"Dear boy. A moment of your time?"

For all the revulsion in the crowd, there wasn't an ounce of it across Jabez's face as he looked at her and bowed his head. "Certainly."

Definitely his father's boy. Who knew they raised such gentlemen in a district ridiculed for getting too close to its cattle.

The young man before her was neither perverse nor inbred, though, offering his arm with a charming hesitance that only made him more endearing.

"Do you need any help, ma'am?"

"If you could escort me outside, boy, that would be wonderful."

Sisyphia let the boy say goodbye to those around him, many of whom were disgruntled at having what amounted to a celebrity stolen away from them by some hag. Jabez, however, was not so unpleasant; in fact, Sisyphia would have guessed by his expression that he was more than a bit relieved to leave the others behind. She didn't blame him. In their line of work, anonymity could be the difference between life and death.

"I take it you didn't plan on being flocked by admirers when you got here."

Jabez blinked, taken aback. "They're not . . . they're just here to give, um, condolences. It's kind of them."

"And a bit overwhelming?"

He didn't respond, but she could see the tips of his ears turn red.

Speaking of fathers, "I was very sorry to hear the news, by the way. Manuel Smithfield is a great man, and I don't believe for a second the Capitol could get to him. He'll turn up sooner or later."

They were through the crowds now, heading towards the station's doors. Few people were around them, even fewer when they broke out into the night. Darkness shrouded them like a cloak, comforting and protective, giving Sisyphia the courage to continue, "After all, I'd dearly like to meet him. We have so much to discuss about the slaughter of pigs."

The boy froze at her side, pulling her back with him. His face was hidden, but she could practically hear his eyes shoot wide open. "Who—?"

"Whitecastle." The code phrases and names rolled strangely off her tongue, perhaps due to the choked sensation in her throat. She hadn't thought she'd ever find herself using them again. Every rebel she had been connected to was dead.

But not every one that knew of her. The boy drew in a breath, glanced around, then murmured quietly, "I'm honoured."

"The feeling is mutual."

"I heard—"

"Completely true, save a few small exceptions."

"I'm sorry."

"So am I."

He looked around them again, drawing a deep breath. The station light framed his silhouette, and Sisyphia could watch his shoulders slump. Yet there was no reluctance in his tone when he spoke. "How can I help?"

"You have a train ticket?"

"Not if you need me here."

She looked at him then, even though she made out only vague features, and sighed. He was young, and already he'd been through too much. Besides, if he was like his father, he wouldn't be of much use. Manuel had only ever preached peace, risking his life to do no more than travel to other districts and _talk_. According to gossip, he'd even made a trip or two into the Capitol, never with the intention of harming a single citizen. Sisyphia had once respected that attitude, but she couldn't abide by it now, and she couldn't risk his boy screwing with her plans in the name of pacifism.

"No," she said finally, clapping him on the shoulder. "Take the train."

"Are you sure?"

"You can help me just as much there. What's your compartment?"

"Eight. Car Four."

"See if you can switch into Car One. Compartment Three." That would put him in the same one as the Twisp twins. "I just . . . I have some distant family on the train. I can't tell you their names, sorry—you must understand the importance of preserving their identities. All I'm asking is . . . keep an eye out, all right? For everyone in that car."

"Of course." He paused, head tilting. "You're not coming?"

"Can't put a target on your backs. You'll be fine on your own. Just be alert."

"Yes, ma'am."

He straightened and gave her a small salute that made her eyes sting. She'd never thought she'd see the gesture again, not from a fellow rebel.

He turned to leave, heading back up the darkened steps to the squares of light from the station's glass doors, and Sisyphia found she wasn't ready. Not to say goodbye to the last rebel she'd likely ever see.

"And Jabez?"

He looked back at her, spinning on his heel like the perfect soldier—like all the young recruits she had once trained. Including her nieces and nephews.

She couldn't help herself; arms reaching out, hands shaking, she pulled the boy into a desperate hug. He tensed beneath her grip, surprised, but relaxed into it as she continued to hold him all while glaring at the space over his shoulder, willing herself not to cry.

There was a sniff, but not from her. Jabez was returning the embrace, arms shivering as he wrapped them around her.

The two rebels stood there, clinging to each other in the darkness, a broken old woman and a lost little boy. Sisyphia felt something needed to be said, for the gesture alone wasn't powerful enough. She wanted to apologise to Jabez, tell him everything was her fault, he'd never have been here if it weren't for her, and god _damn_ was she sorry, because she loved him, him and his brothers and sisters.

But Jabez wasn't her nephew. The crushing realisation came just as she lowered her mouth to his ear, so all that she managed was a choked, "Watch out for Three."

He pulled back, confused, but she had no more to give him. No more to give anyone. The painkillers she'd had Twisp steal worked wonders, but they were no miracle cure. Untreated, her many wounds would turn her body to rot, and even if they didn't, the limit in mobility was enough to kill her. A woman in her position couldn't afford to lose her ability to run.

It didn't matter. Not anymore. Maybe she wouldn't live to see the Capitol fall, but at least she could orchestrate one final "fuck you" to them.

At least she'd managed to hold a fellow rebel, one last time.

* * *

Sisyphia Rook may have felt at peace, but others were not so lucky. The arrogance, some might say of her swiftness to reorder _Revenant_ 's seats, when so many were having difficulty even getting on board.

"Come on!"

"We bought our tickets!"

"Let us pass!"

"We deserve to be here!"

Mack Kenworth sighed for what had to be the fortieth time in the span of fifteen minutes. His arms remained crossed, feet firmly planted in front of the open train door, and he appraised the crowd once again.

"The situation has changed. There are more evacuees than we thought. Please remain calm and wait for an officer to speak with you."

Ugh, he'd said the words so many times, they were putting him to sleep. If only they could have effect on the crowd.

"So you sold more tickets than seats, is that what you're saying?" Of course it was the loudmouth brat talking again, the one who'd stuck himself right in Mack's face with no intention of moving. "That sounds pretty sketchy."

"There was a mistake in the scheduling," Mack repeated the same doctrine he'd been told by his supervisor. "Tickets weren't meant to go out to District Nine. I apologise for the misunderstanding, and please be assured, we are doing everything in our power to—"

"Fuck you!"

Damn it, it was Brat Number Two, this one a vulgar little girl shoving her way to the front.

"Do you know how far we've come?" she demanded. "Do you think we took another fucking train here? We _walked_ , dick, and we're not doing that all the way to Four. Let. Us. On."

"Ma'am, I'm going to ask you one last time to calm yourself and check your language. Please keep in mind I do not make the executive decisions, and I do have access to a panic button, which I will not hesitate to press if I feel my life is threatened."

"What about our lives!" a woman cried, one of 9's many accents strong in her voice. "What about our _children's_ lives?" she added, hefting her baby higher on her hip while she drew her other three children in close. "We've risked everything for them! You must have a child, surely you understand!"

For a moment, Mack did think of Lorrie. She was safe in 4 now, thank Panem . . . but that was only because Mack had finally managed to wheedle his way into a job on _Revenant_. In the weeks before his appointment, every day had been nothing but fear, holding his wife and daughter close while tales of battles and massacres played on their radio. All the while, foreigners from 9, 3, 12, wherever were invading their home and taking their trains out.

The mayor had cracked down on that, finally. It was harsh, but necessary. 6 had to take care of its own people first, or how else could they help others?

These people didn't like it? They could go back home and build their own damn trains.

The brats were shouting again, and the mother had stirred other parents into making loud protests, but Mack tuned them all out, turning his eyes away to the rest of the platform. People— _Sixes_ —were finally making their way out of the station and towards the train car doors, each one manned by an attendant like himself. The only difference was, they didn't have to deal with the mad crowd of Nines that had broken through security to try and board their car early.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I have to ask you to please step back." Even bored and dull, Mack's tone carried over the crowd. "The train will be boarding shortly—"

"Without us!"

"—and I expect you to please act civilised during the procedure. Once again, Phantom Rails is dreadfully sorry for its mistake, and wishes to assure everyone another train will be along shortly to pick you up. We only wish to see everyone happy and healthy in Four."

"You only want to see your own people there!" The young man at the front was shouting again, egged on by a freckled girl at his side. "What, we aren't good enough for your fancy-ass train? We don't matter as much as people from Six?"

That was it; Mack's last nerve had been hit. "Frankly? Yes. Look, sorry if your own district can't do a thing for you, but we have to prioritise our people first. It'd be the same thing if Nine made trains—"

"Like hell it would be."

"—and we just don't have the resources to accommodate everyone who comes to us," Mack finished, huffing out the last syllable. He was getting pretty damn tired of being interrupted. "Come on, use your brains. Maybe Nine is tiny, but we are the most populous district in Panem. Do you know how much of an effort it will take just to make sure all of our own children are safe? And I know you have children too," he snapped before the mother could step in with another comment, "but it's not really our fault you dragged them here, now is it? So just—"

Yes, Mack was getting real fucking tired of being interrupted. But he would have given anything for another heckler to drown out his words instead of the explosion that shattered the night.

The ground shook. The very air roared Everyone screamed and dropped, Mack included. His stomach slammed into the concrete, arms over his head, ever inch of him trembling against the stone. Or was it the stone that was vibrating, vibrating in anticipation of another catastrophe?

A bomb. It had to be a bomb. But they couldn't do that, the Capitol couldn't _do_ that. Not here. The city around this station was a slum, but it was also the most populated centre in 6. They wouldn't . . . they _couldn't_. . .

At his hip, his radio was going crazy. Guards, engineers, everyone was calling in with reports. Panicked mobs outside the station. Smoke rising in the east. Bright lights—flames—tearing into the SC, the dirtiest, tightest packed neighbourhood in 6. Everything there from the workers to the streets was always covered in motor oil.

Panem help them all.

"Get on the train!" Before he knew what he was doing, Mack was on his feet, shouting orders and the fallen crowd around them. "The Capitol is attacking, get on the train now!"

Wide eyes stared back at him. No one understood; hell, he could barely make sense of the words leaving his mouth. His ears were ringing with the sound of explosions, echoes of the first or heralds of more attacks, he couldn't tell.

"I said move! Move or die!"

He lunged for the closest person, the boy who'd been such a nuisance before. Both were off-balance, the world spinning in their shock, but Mack managed to yank the Nine to his feet, and then he was shouting too.

"You heard him, get on the train!"

It was the voice of one of their own that snapped him out of it. People started screaming again, and sobbing, but they started moving too, scrambling to their feet and racing for the doors. Mack and the boy, the freckled girl at his side, encouraged them with shouts and waves, dragging people up when they couldn't move themselves. Mack couldn't see what was going on in the other cars, but from the sound of it, they were dealing with the same commotion. Or maybe those cries were all from his crowd; maybe all from him. It was impossible to know.

His arms grew weak and his throat grew raw, but after three minutes of shoving, there was no one left standing before him save the two who'd helped with the herding. He pushed them ahead, through the open doors and up the stairs to the car corridor, where they fell, sprawling from the force. Racing in after them, Mack had no time to stop, tripping head over heels, plunging over their bodies and straight into the legs of another person carelessly packed into the overcrowded train car.

His head spun, but he had enough sense to check back and see if the kids were all right. Both looked dazed, but fine as they sat up, though the boy was cursing, hands skittering across the ground for something.

Mack found it first: a small, bronze disc, designed to be shoved easily under the tongue in case one ever had to hide the intricate symbol etched into the metal.

A bird ducking an arrow, flying free of a cage. The boy was here on rebel business.

"Why didn't you say so?" Mack said, unable to stop the words from falling out as the boy grabbed for his possession. "I'd have let you on the train right away."

The rebel gave him a disparaging glare. "And how about everyone else?"

He didn't have a response, so he let the boy pull the girl to her feet and walk away. The train attendant, for his part, was perfectly content with lying back, breathing deep, uncaring that his head was on someone's shoe. What did it matter, anyways? He'd gotten everyone on. When the Capitol started dropping bombs, you forgot everything your mother ever taught you about district loyalty and you tried to save as many as you could.

And he had. Mack laid there in the middle of the corridor, panting and gasping as the car door closed and the train groaned to life. They were off, away from the danger.

The boy and the girl had already found their compartment, taking advantage of the privacy to make sure the package in the girl's sack hadn't been damaged. Next door, the other outspoken one and her brother were collapsed on the seats in relief. In the corridor, the mother stayed, hugging her children close as all five of them cried. A few feet from them, another group of five, all strikingly beautiful girls, held hands in silent comfort.

No one noticed a wild-eyed girl, arms covered in soot stains, sneak onto the train right before it departed. What did it matter, anyways? What was one more passenger?

* * *

In fact, _Revenant_ was supposed to have one more passenger before it reached 4, though she wasn't supposed to come from 6. It was a pick-up only the chief conductor knew about, but it was hard for the rest of the crew to miss the turn they took into the surrendered District 3 instead of away from it. An emergency supply run was needed, or someone had family there they had to check up on, or who really gave a damn because harder still was it to miss the generous sums that had been added to all their paychecks. No words were said, but everyone knew what it was for.

Still, that didn't silence the train's newest Junior Mechanic.

"We shouldn't be here," Felix Twisp murmured, staring out the window at the hazy cityscape in the distance. "Going into Three is nothing but trouble."

"We're not going through it, we're skirting it. And oi, get off your ass and help!"

With a sigh, Felix turned back to his companion. Surrey Landau was banging around on the central air unit for Car One with little finesse. They were supposed to be figuring out why it had suddenly become boiling in here; somewhere down the line, someone had forgotten they were transport mechanics, not technical ones.

Surrey rolled his eyes as his co-worker reluctantly slouched away from the window. "Done sulking?"

"It just doesn't make sense."

"Neither does this damn thing, how about you focus on it first?"

"Why would we be taking such a risk?" Felix continued earnestly.

"You heard. For a—"

"Don't give me that 'supply run' bullshit, when have you ever heard of _Revenant_ stopping for supplies?"

"It's happens. I'd know because I've _been here_." Surrey was bristling from his toes to his large, carefully-coifed moustache that the other couldn't have grown if he tried. It was just another marker of how old the nearly-forty Junior Mechanic was, and with age was supposed to come respect. He was getting real tired of dealing with these hotshot young'uns. Dray had been bad enough.

But this one, with his rambling, was definitely worse. "What about the extra pay? That ever happened before?"

"Do you make a habit of questioning good fortune?"

"Nothing comes without a price." He was back to looking out the window—hadn't even touched his damn wrench. "I'd rather not pay with my life."

"Poetic. Now hold this while I work these screws."

"I just think we should take a different route. Three's compromised, but Nine's holding on. Why didn't we go through there?"

"Damn it." Surrey threw down the loose screw and turned to glare at his co-worker, brandishing the screwdriver menacingly. "I don't know. So shut up, _please_. Or go find someone who gives a damn."

"Do you think anyone will listen?"

"They certainly can't not listen any harder than I am right now."

Felix scowled. "All right. I get it."

"Finally."

Five minutes. That was all the silence he got. Five minutes of unscrewing, and then as soon as the casing was off, the boy was prattling on again.

"What if the passengers ask? They can't all be paid off."

"Tell them you're the expert and they don't know shit."

"What if they panic? I wouldn't blame them." Another look out the window, another sigh, soulful-like, as though he was auditioning for a damn soap opera. "I just don't think we should go to—"

Surrey drowned out the next few words by turning on the unit. Without the cover, it made a hair-raising series of screeches that filled the air and wormed right into your skull. Music to Surrey's ears.

Not that it should actually be sounding like that. Something was dreadfully wrong. But a few more seconds of the soothing shrieks of metal couldn't hurt.

Felix gave him a dark look as he let the machine run. Surrey's eyes slid over to his wrench. Finally taking the damn hint, _Revenant_ 's newbie rolled his eyes, picked up his tools, and set to work alongside the older mechanic.

If Surrey caught the flash of fear in Felix's eyes, he ignored it. Most likely, he'd missed it entirely. He wasn't the most observational of men. Indeed, when the time came for _Revenant_ to make its most dangerous stop for a "supply run", he found himself outside doing a checkup of the wheels and never once caught a word of the secretive exchange not five feet from him.

* * *

"Huh. It really did come." The teenage girl on the rickety platform turned to her companion as mechanics exited the train, one of them brushing against her shoulder as if to assure her this was all real. "You were right."

The girl at her side didn't answer—she hardly ever had—but the snooty woman up front didn't leave her in want of a response for long.

"Of course it did," Ismene Epimetheus snapped, stepping closer to her own silent companion. "There was never any doubt of that."

"Your nails say otherwise. Didn't realise you had any teeth left to chew, or do dentures work better than I thought?"

"You disrespectful _brat_." Ismene raised hand, brushing away bleach-blonde hair from a face she knew didn't look a day over thirty. "Tell me, in what repulsive dumpster did you find that mouth?"

"The same one where you got that wig."

Ismene scowled as the girl smirked. Youths these days, what on earth had gotten into them?

"If you know the trash so well," she sniffed, "Then I suggest you return to it. There's no place for you or your . . . _friend_ here."

If possible, the silent girl unnerved her even more than the insulting one. Tall and impassive, she hadn't spoken since Ismene had arrived at the makeshift station, though her outfit said more than enough. Grey-tinted camouflage pants, a matching shirt, and a pair of black boots all thoroughly coated in a layer of mud and a darker substance Ismene was afraid to name. Add to that the large tear in the material right across the girl's chest, revealing her yellowing undershirt beneath, and Ismene was both unnerved and embarrassed on her behalf.

Not that the other girl was any less hard to look at, with her military jacket and the small scars visible across her face. Ismene broke eye contact as she suddenly found herself the subject of a stare no longer containing an ounce of mocking humour.

"You seem to continue suffering from the delusion that we can be stopped from getting on that train."

"Well . . . I . . ." Ismene found herself stuttering under the intensity of the girl's pale eyes. "You don't even have a _ticket_ ," she protested.

"Does it look like I care?"

" _Ahem_."

Both the two who argued and the two who watched turned as one, coming face-to-face with a harried man in his mid-forties, bags beneath his eyes the barest hint of the stress he bore upon his shoulders.

"Diesal Fercheveau," _Revenant_ 's conductor said by way of introductions. "Is there a problem here?"

"Professor Epimetheus, school of Physics," Ismene replied to be polite, just as the cheeky urchin interrupted with, "No problems."

Ismene glared at her as the conductor gave them both a weary appraisal. "You sure?" he said, rubbing his eyes. "Because either I'm more exhausted than I thought, or I'm seeing four of you here when there should only be one. That's a problem."

"Yes, that deal was made by me," Ismene jumped in quickly before the delinquent could cut her off. "Ah, not for me though. My companion here. She's the one getting on."

Ismene gestured to the quiet girl beside her, who had thus far kept her face hidden beneath a curtain of blonde hair. Now, though, Thalia Silverlake raised her head and hand to shake with the conductor. Ismene couldn't even see the train ticket, nor the folded-up bill worth one-hundred Panemian denarii, that changed hands. All the girl's practice had paid off.

Diesal slipped his hand into his pocket after the exchange and gave her a curt nod. "Car One," he murmured, gesturing down the train. "Don't talk to anyone. If they do ask, you were brought on to fix the central air unit."

Ismene wrinkled her nose. "She's not a mechanic."

"She doesn't have to be. It's rigged—I'll get you the instructions to fix it on board. Now, hurry up. No time for a long goodbye."

One wasn't needed. Truth be told, Ismene hardly knew the girl at her side, though Thalia had been one of her students. After an . . . incident a few years back, Professor Epimetheus had made it a rule to never get too friendly with those she taught, though in the social circles of students, she was still known as one of the most "well-connected" professors at the Rutherford Institute for Astronomy and Physics. This bit of gossip was the only thing that had drawn Thalia to Ismene, nothing more.

Still, the older woman felt at least some words were in order.

"Safe travels, dear," she said, raising her arms for a hug. Her hands went to her hair instead when Thalia took a step back. "I really do hope you find . . ."

What? Her mother? The girl had nothing more than a name there, and she hadn't been afraid of showing her disdain when she spoke of the woman who ran out on her family not three weeks after she'd given birth. Ismene didn't even know if Thalia would attempt to connect with her when she reached 4.

But then, she couldn't say her father. Any reunion of theirs would be bittersweet considering the circumstances would likely be dreadful.

". . . what you're looking for," Ismene finished instead. It was the best she could do.

Thalia simply nodded in response, then turned and boarded the train. The conductor made to follow, and that was that.

Except—

"What the fuck about us?"

Ismene tutted. Diesal sighed. Both looked back at the two remaining girls waiting on the station platform.

"This isn't a charity," the conductor said, running a hand through his unruly hair. "And we're not taking refugees from Three right now."

"What about soldiers?" The talkative girl glanced at her companion, then hooked a thumb in her direction. "Private Reid. And I'm Cadet Von Patten. We were sent to give you some extra muscle. Travelling through Three is dangerous business."

Ismene, about to scoff at the obvious lie, stopped short as the girl's introduction echoed in her head. _Von Patten_. As in Achilles Von Patten? AVP Electronics? No, it couldn't be.

The weight of her name was lost on the man from 6, however, who looked no more impressed as he inspected the two again.

"Sent, eh? Two teenage girls sent to be reinforcements? And by who, exactly? I wasn't aware there were any more rebels in Three."

"Obviously you weren't aware of them—if you were, the Capitol probably would be too. Even though . . . they are now, I suppose. There were supposed to be more of us, believe me. But there was an ambush." Von Patten nudged the other girl into the spotlight, drawing everyone's eyes immediately to her stained uniform. "What, did you think this was paint?"

Ismene felt her stomach twist. Of course, she should have known they were rebels; dirty and violent, Panem's anarchists had brought nothing but the Capitol's wrath down on the districts. She'd made a point to stay as far from them as she could, but now here was one standing right in front of her, dressed in the blood of other human beings. The day suddenly got very hot, and she was beginning to feel faint.

It was a shock to see the conductor looking sympathetic, rather than repulsed as he should. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't realise. . . But then . . . who are you?" he asked, directing his words at Von Patten. "You said 'cadet', but you don't exactly look like you've been through the same hell that—"

"I recruited her."

All eyes turned to Reid. She had a surprisingly deep voice for one so stringy.

"After the attack," she clarified once she had their attention. "She was all I could find, and even two teenage girls are better than one."

"Yeah," added Von Patten, tone surprised, as though shocked her companion had bothered to speak.

Diesal evaluated the private, taking in everything from her uniform to the way she stood. Ismene could see the calculations running in his eyes, and she didn't like the conclusion he was approaching.

"All right."

"But—"

Her protest was lost as the two girls shoved forward, pushing her aside to make their ways onto the train. The conductor hurried after them, done with listening to complaints. Even the mechanics were finishing their check-ups, forcing Ismene further and further away as they crowded towards the cars.

She was too stunned to object as the doors all closed and the train roared to life. Besides, what was she supposed to do? She'd already admitted she hardly knew Thalia Silverlake; the only reason they'd had any cause to interact was the large sum of money she'd been paid to arrange this trip on the train.

Yet she'd liked Thalia; she'd seen herself in the girl, actually. And now Ismene couldn't help but feel she'd only put her in more danger.

* * *

Felix Twisp was not ready. For any of it.

Surrey had left him alone to deal with the central air unit while he went out to do a train check-up, but Felix hadn't touched the device once throughout the duration of their stop. His palms were too sweaty to hold the wrench, and he didn't want to go near his toolbox. Not when he knew what was concealed beneath the false bottom.

 _One bullet for one target,_ Sisyphia had said, making a big show of emptying the other chambers in the seconds before he'd boarded. _So don't get any ideas about shooting your way out of this. I pointed out Smithfield to you, but don't think for a second I don't have more well-hidden accomplices._

He wanted to believe it was a lie, but even if it wasn't, he was screwed. Smithfield had already made his home in the compartment of Felix's siblings, kindly asking the original seat-holder to move, and who wouldn't for a famous rebel? Felix's own brother was overjoyed to be sharing a compartment with the son of Manuel Smithfield, and he'd attached himself to the boy like glue. There was no way Felix could take out Smithfield without risking his brother's safety. Hell, he wasn't even sure he could kill at all.

His eyes slid to his toolbox again, and new beads of sweat broke out across his brow. He had to. Smithfield, or Sisyphia's target, and Smithfield wasn't an option. So . . .

"Landau for Twisp!"

Felix jumped as the radio at his hip crackled. Fumbling fingers fiddled with the strap until he successfully managed to detach it, raising it to his mouth with a shaking hand. "Go for Twisp."

"Stop meddling with the CAU and head to Compartment One. 'Parently we picked up some fancy new Three mechanic to help you out with it."

Panem help him, this was it.

"C-Copy that."

He gave his toolbox one last, lingering stare, and all but ran out the door. Into the car's main hall, he stumbled, tripping over his own feet as he made his way down to Compartment One. Inside, his walking corpse was waiting to be collected.

He almost turned back. His feet froze, hesitating, right outside Compartment Three. Through the frosted glass of the door, he could just barely see the outlines of the four children within. Some redheaded 6 girl. His siblings. And Jabez Smithfield.

Before he knew it, he was facing the door to Compartment One, hand poised to knock. His fingers were trembling in their fist.

He could do this. He could do this. He could do this.

For Nick and Nina, he _had_ to do this.

He rapped his knuckles against the door, then yanked his hand back as though burned. Casual, he had to look casual. Hands by his sides? No. In his pockets? Should he cross his arms? Lean against the wall? Smile? He couldn't remember anything, let alone how to act normal.

The door opened before he could decide on a position, leaving him with one hand in his pocket, one on the wall, a twisted grimace overtaking his lips. The girl peering through the crack in the door rightfully frowned.

"Uh, can we help you?"

He couldn't respond, too busy staring at her. She was tall, tall and lean, with long, light-brown hair that flowed all the way down to the middle of her torso. Her nose was slim, her lips full, and her complexion unhealthily pale. The most harrowing thing about her, though, was her eyes. They were the palest shade of blue-grey Felix had ever seen, like two slivers of ice burrowing into his soul. Eyes like that, they never left you—so why could he remember seeing them before?

For that matter, had the girl had brown hair in Sisyphia's photograph? Or had it been blonde? No, red—or was a lie he'd made up to piss off the rebel? It didn't even matter, hair colour could always change, and this still had to be . . .

Wait. Had she said 'can _we_ help you'?

Before Felix could speak, there was a new voice, coming from inside the same compartment. "It's fine, he's here for me."

The girl at the door shrugged and slid the door open, revealing not one, but _two_ more people inside. All girls. All white. All around the same age.

Felix swallowed. "You're all from Three?"

The girl at the door narrowed her eyes. "Maybe. What's it to you?"

No. No, no, no, no, _shit_.

He should have paid more attention to Sisyphia. Damn it, he'd thought he could get out of this, but now he was caught in the stares of three girls from 3, any of which could be his target. One was blonde, but then he still wasn't sure the girl in the picture had _had_ blonde hair, and anyways, hadn't he just thought about hair colour changing? Besides, hers was silvery blonde, and hadn't it been darker in the photograph? Or was that just the lighting? Or did it lighten as she grew older, or did one of these other girls dye their hair to hide their identities? The photo was at least three years old, blurry and taken at an awkward angle, and _damn it,_ Sisyphia hadn't even allowed him to take it with him on the train.

He was fucked. Completely and utterly fucked, and his siblings were fucked, they were _dead_ , Smithfield was going to _kill them_.

No. No, no, Sisyphia had given him a name as well. A name of one of the Capitol turncoats—Oliver something. Dr. Oliver Pachis. They didn't have a name for his daughter, but she was the target. Pachis.

The blonde girl had stood, frowning at him along with the others as he continued to watch them all silently. "You are here for me, right?"

He stared at her. _I don't know. But I can find out._

Without warning, he stuck out his hand and said, in a slightly higher voice than usual, "Felix Twisp."

The girl looked taken aback, but after a moment of hesitance, she took his hand. "Thalia Silverlake."

"Thisbe Von Patten," said the other one. "That's Ardelia."

His heart leapt in his throat as he stared at the girl still sitting down. Her hair was short and brown—the style of someone who'd just cut and dyed it to stay anonymous? "Ardelia . . .?"

"Reid," said Thisbe, giving him a funny look. "What's with all the questions?"

Silverlake, Von Patten, and Reid. Of course, _of course_ they were using a fake name. Or one of them was.

Shit, shit, _shit._

Thisbe's scowl deepened the longer he stood silent. "You got something to say?"

He shook his head, realising for the first time how bizarre and, frankly, creepy he must look. To normal girls, that is; to any daughter of a traitor, his behaviour would be downright suspicious. He couldn't afford to tip her off, not when he didn't even know who she _was_. If she caught wind of his mission and bailed before he had the chance to do the deed, his siblings wouldn't live to see Four.

There was nothing for it. He knew there was only one guaranteed way to get overzealous authority figures—and other leery people—off your back, and that was to embarrass yourself bad enough that they completely forgot why they were skeptical of you in the first place. It was a blow to the ego every time, but damn it, he couldn't afford to keep up appearances now.

"I've just, um, never seen a Three before," he said in his best smitten-teenage-boy voice. "Y-You're all very pretty."

The three girls stared at him. He turned around and pointed down the hall.

"The air unit's this way. Um, goodbye."

Without further ado, he walked off, straining his ears to hear their reaction. Once he caught Thisbe's snort, he felt his cheeks burn, but at least they didn't seem suspicious anymore. Indeed, from the sound of the footsteps behind him, Thalia was following his path to the air unit, no longer apprehensive.

Now all he had to do was figure out which of the three girls was a traitor to the districts. A decision that, if he chose wrong, would result in his murdering of an innocent teenager. And the deaths of his siblings as well.

A trickle of sweat rolled across his temple as he tried not to think about how much he wanted to throw up.

* * *

No sooner had Thalia been picked up by Felix then another young man, this one Arum Ayers, came by to collect Thisbe and Ardelia. He was much more eloquent in stating his purpose: to show them the ropes of being a guard on _Revenant_. It was all hands on deck until they got out of 3, and even the untrained were considered useful.

For a full day, Thisbe, Ardelia, Arum, and the other rebel guards patrolled the corridors of _Revenant_ while the passengers around them held their breaths. Jabez Smithfield in particular could hardly sit still, often leaving his compartment to walk with the guards, peering out the windows to double- and triple-check that no Capitol soldiers or tanks were in sight. Had that been the last thing his father had seen, before they'd captured his train? Or had he ridden on, unawares, as hackers took control of the electric rail and diverted its course?

Manuel Smithfield had been well-known in 6—indeed, he spent so much time on their trains, he was often considered "one of theirs"—and many were ecstatic to see his son grace their car with his presence. Few, however, kept track of his movements as much as Felix Twisp.

To him, Jabez Smithfield could only be anxious because of one thing: Felix's target. Which meant he had to act fast, before the jittery boy from 10 developed an itchy trigger finger. But how was he supposed to tell the traitorous girl apart from the innocent ones? They all seemed so similar.

Indeed, they were all alike in hiding secrets. Ardelia Reid was no exception. In fact, hers was perhaps the most dangerous secret a citizen of the districts, onboard a train filled with rebels, could possibly carry.

* * *

"You're quick on your feet," Thisbe said as the two girls finally got a chance to relax in their compartment. They'd crossed the border into 9 that morning, and train had echoed with two hundred sighs of relief. The guards had finally been given a break, though it seemed Thalia was still at work on the air unit. Hopefully she'd finish soon; beneath her military jacket, Thisbe's shirt was a pale olive-green, and it didn't exactly hide sweat stains.

"Excuse me?" Ardelia said quietly, turning her head from the window ever so slightly to watch Thisbe out of the corner of her eye.

"Back when we were getting on the train. Didn't expect you to be so good at improv."

Ardelia blinked. "It was lying. Everyone knows how to do it."

"But none are quite so proficient as you."

Thisbe smiled when she saw the girl tense. Yes, she'd expected that to hit a nerve.

"I only added to your story," Ardelia said quickly, returning her gaze to the window. "You did all the work."

"Come on, now, I'm not the one who managed to convince everyone she's a soldier for the districts."

Thisbe swore she could hear Ardelia's heart stop.

"I don't know what you're—"

"Yes you do."

Ardelia remained seated, but Thisbe could see her muscles tense, preparing her to jump immediately to her feet if necessary. "What do you want?" she murmured.

"Mostly to see if I was right." Thisbe's smirk widened at the girl's incredulous stare. "I was, wasn't I? I thought so—you're _way_ too disciplined for a rebel soldier."

"The rebels hold themselves to the highest standards for regulation and restraint—"

"No they don't. Why do you think I want to join up with them? I've seen Capitol soldiers up close, and I'm ninety-nine percent sure part of their training involves shoving sticks up their asses." She grinned. "No offense."

Ardelia took a deep breath, her rigid form the polar opposite to Thisbe's laid-back sprawl across her seat. "I'm not here to hurt anyone."

"I gathered that. I'm guessing you're not hugely friendly with the Capitol anymore, considering you're here rather than over there. Did you kill one of your own teammates?"

"What? No."

"Get a little over-excited while raping and pillaging a district town?"

" _No_ ," Ardelia said adamantly. "We never did anything like that."

"I'm only teasing," Thisbe replied, though with her expression, it was impossible to tell whether or not this was true. "So what was it? What heinous war crime did you commit to find yourself stuck with the other side?"

"I didn't want to kill."

"Ah, the worst of them all. So, I guess my story wasn't a total lie, was it? There was an ambush, only you were on the side _doing_ the ambushing, and then you, what, had a change of heart?"

"We _were_ ambushed." Ardelia's voice lost its deepness. It was high—and choked.

"I didn't know there were enough organised rebels left in Three for anything big."

"There weren't."

"So . . .?"

Ardelia's breath was shaky, and her words came tumbling out all at once. "We were in trucks. Just doing a patrol. But there was a . . . a mine in the road. I was in the back of the convoy, didn't get too shaken, but when we got out to fight, we only found . . . kids. _Kids_. Kids with guns fighting for ideals they barely understood."

Thisbe gave her a moment of silence as she looked back out the window, drumming her fingers on the sill. Then she had to say, "Kids, huh? And how old are you?"

Ardelia scowled. "Eighteen. And yes, I see what you're getting at. I left, if you forgot. I know what my ideals are."

"So now you're on the run, and both sides will kill you if they find out who you are. Huh," Thisbe repeated, raising an eyebrow as she took in her companion, as if for the first time. "That's pretty badass."

There was just enough mockery in her voice to set Ardelia off. "What do you want?" she demanded again, turning to meet Thisbe's gaze dead-on for the first time since they'd stumbled across each other. "Going to turn me in?"

Thisbe thought about it for a solid minute, long enough to make Ardelia squirm. Already, her eyes were darting to the window. If she received a response she didn't like, would she have time to throw it open and dive out before Thisbe called the guards? Would she even survive that fall? The train was going fast, but they were travelling through 9's wheat fields now, surely that would slightly soften her—

"No."

"What?"

"No," Thisbe said again, watching Ardelia's eyes widen in surprise. "I'll keep your secret. I like you, Reid—currently. Change my mind, and we'll see what happens."

Ardelia stared. She'd known Thisbe for four days now, and had been at her side constantly ever since the girl had approached her with the intention of becoming a soldier, yet Ardelia still couldn't figure her out for the life of her. One minute, Thisbe Von Patten was calm and casual, cracking jokes and spouting almost flirtatious mockery. The next, she could look as hard and cruel as Ardelia's old general. You could get whiplash trying to keep track of her moods.

"Well." Thisbe clapped her hands and hopped to her feet, earning a flinch from her companion that didn't go unnoticed. "Calm down. I said I like you, didn't I? I don't tend to turn in people I like. I _do_ tend to get them coffee. You want a cup? I'm going through withdrawal here."

Ardelia, startled by yet another sudden change, could only shake her head. "Um, no. No thanks."

"Suit yourself." Thisbe gave her a small, sarcastic salute and slid their compartment door open.

Eavesdropping is a tricky business, especially if you can't quite hear ever word over the roar of a steam engine train. Thalia Silverlake, missing the last bit of the conversation, had next to no warning as Thisbe exited the compartment, and, in a moment of panic, chose to run instead of acting casual.

The blonde head darting away from her position was easily spotted by Thisbe, who watched in mild amusement as Thalia lurched down the hallway, straight into the chest of a frizzy-haired boy a few compartments down.

"I'm so sorry, are you all right?" he said, hurrying to help her regain her balance.

Thalia opened her mouth to respond, but shut it as soon as she saw the boy's face. She stumbled away, then glanced back to find she had an audience. Thisbe gave her a little wave.

 _Revenant_ 's newest soldier chuckled as her fellow Three made a beeline for the car's exit. Thisbe wasn't worried. She doubted Thalia would tell Ardelia's secret, even if she had heard the whole thing; she didn't seem like the type. And, even if she did, well, that was Ardelia's problem. Thisbe didn't like her _that_ much.

Still, eavesdropping was _rude._ And Thisbe couldn't abide by rudeness—at least, not without paying Thalia back in kind.

* * *

As it turned out, an opportunity presented itself to Thisbe just after _Revenant_ passed through the border into District 1, the last district they'd reach before 4. Everyone was rightfully excited; hell, some of the guards were even having a small party in the last car. Thisbe had been invited, but she'd opted out of going. Tonight wasn't a night she felt like dealing with a crowd of people, though she had left Ardelia there to fend for herself. Surprisingly, the quiet girl hadn't minded; if Thisbe didn't know better, she'd say her companion had developed a little crush on the handsome private who'd toured them around that first day.

A bit disappointing—Ardelia was pretty in her own stoic way—but, oh well. Better him than that bumbling, infatuated mechanic who was always hanging around their compartment.

Thankfully, he was nowhere in sight tonight. Thisbe let out a sigh of relief as she shuffled through the plush carpet of the hall, though her breath broke off sharply as she caught a voice coming from her compartment.

It was definitely female, and it couldn't be Ardelia.

Well, well, well, it looked like it was time to get some eavesdropping payback.

Crouching low so her outline wouldn't be seen through the glass covering the top half of the door, Thisbe pressed her ear against the paneled wood and listened for sounds on the other side. Who would Thalia be having a conversation with so late at night in their own compartment?

". . . dangerous . . . scared I'm going to . . . help me . . ."

The words were often too muffled to make out, and the constant whirring of the train didn't help matters, but every so often, Thalia stopped completely, as though awaiting a reply that never came. What was she doing in there?

". . . please . . . soldiers in my car . . ."

Thisbe's ears perked up. Soldiers, eh? That had to be her and Ardelia.

". . . going to hurt me . . . please . . . do anything . . ."

Damn it—maybe Thalia had heard more than Thisbe had anticipated with regards to her and Ardelia's earlier conversation. Or not enough. Did she really think the two of them were with the Capitol?

". . . a-all right . . . judging by the route . . . going past . . . tomorrow . . . hurry . . ."

Thisbe waited, straining her ears for more, but none came. Well, that had been rather anticlimactic—if somewhat intriguing.

So Thalia was afraid of she and Ardelia, huh? That would make for an interesting ride to 4.

* * *

Afterwards, Thisbe would regret not attending the guard party. A night of fun, maybe hooking up with another reasonably fit soldier, would have been a better memory than entering the compartment and spending a tense few hours sitting opposite Thalia. Instead, she squandered her last night of freedom unknowingly.

 _Revenant_ would never make it to 4. Its passengers were unaware, but it had just entered its last twenty-four hours of life.

* * *

 _Well I am Death, none can excel_  
 _I'll open the door to Heaven or Hell_

* * *

It began with an announcement over the radio, broadcasting from the last intact rebel base. 6, the district they had left behind, their _home_ , had fallen.

The explosion had worried them too much. Terrified of another attack, their mayor had been quick to surrender to the Capitol forces waiting on the outskirts of the district. With 9 so close, it was sure to follow, and then that would leave only 1, 4, and 11 holding their own.

It seemed _Revenant_ would not have its ' _revenir_ '. In fact, many were starting to doubt they'd even make it to 4. If 6 had surrendered, what information had they given up? Was the Capitol chasing them down, even now?

Jabez Smithfield couldn't stand it. All morning, he raced from car to car, never standing still, checking in with each soldier to make sure they'd seen nothing suspicious. He was getting worse than jumpy, nerves balanced on the head of a pin, and soon he'd tip right over the edge. Felix could already hear the screams of his siblings as the gunshots sounded, so vivid in his head he feared each new echo was actually real.

That was that, then. It had to be tonight.

* * *

Far from Felix and Jabez, in the second-last car where all those from 9 had been shoved, a baby was crying again. Perhaps she too sensed that something would go wrong tonight. Or perhaps she was simply cold, or hungry, or tired, or feeling anything else that made babies cry.

She was probably hungry, young Minjae Nuncio thought, poking his sister's squishy tummy. He was too. They all were; the man who had helped them on the train, Mack, he kept saying there wasn't enough food for all the extra refugees, that they had to ration it, but Minjae had snuck up to the higher level cars with Leon, and he'd seen how they were eating there for himself. They had _so_ much more food, so why couldn't they share?

Well, they did—without knowing. Leon had come up with an awesome plan where Minjae would cry and pretend he lost his family, attracting all the attention to him while Leon slipped around grabbing food from people's rooms.

Umma said that was bad, but Minjae didn't think it was. They were only teaching the new people how to share, which they should really know by now—even Minjae had learned to share when Cammie had been born, though he hated it.

Besides, he liked playing with Leon and distracting the others. He was really good at it too. Leon said his fake crying was so believable, even _he_ fell for it sometimes. It was easy for Minjae though. All he had to do was pretend he really _had_ lost his family, which wasn't hard because no one knew where Papá was, and since Cammie had been born, Umma didn't have time to spend on him, and Chia didn't talk as much after her arm stopped working, and every time Leon disappeared on one of his adventures, they worried he wouldn't come back, and . . . and . . .

S-See? He was fake crying right now, and it was so believable Chia looked sad for him.

"Oh, Minjae," she whispered, using her one good hand to draw him up onto the seat, snuggled in her lap. "Don't cry."

"I'm not," he said, rubbing his eyes furiously. Sometimes, he was too awesome at fake crying for his own good.

"Yeah, don't cry, _chamaco_." Leon hopped up from his spot beside Chia, turning back around to ruffle Minjae's curly hair. "We're supposed to be having a better party than those noisy Sixes, remember?"

Minjae nodded, and Leon grinned.

"I have just the thing too. Nabbed this from a _cabrón_ up in the first class seats."

"Leon!" Chia hissed at the bad word, and then again when he procured a silly-looking hat he'd rolled up into his sleeve. " _Leon_! Umma told you to stop that!"

"She doesn't have to know," he replied, nodding his head towards their mother, who had somehow managed to fall asleep even with Chia wailing in her arms. "So let's have some fun!"

With a smirk that held all the mischievousness a twelve-year-old boy could manage—which was quite a lot—Leon plucked their crying sister from her blanket and slid the funny hat onto her head. Minjae giggled as Leon put on a fancy voice, bouncing Cammie in front of him and making her little arms and legs dance.

"Oh, hello there! I'm Porky Fatface from Car One! Have you seen my special hat at all? It's so ugly, I know no one stole it! Oh no, maybe I accidentally ate it!"

Minjae clapped his hands, and even Chia smiled as Leon continued the charade, going on about Porky, who came from District 1 and had six kitchens in his mansion. Even Cammie seemed to be having fun; she was quieter now, content to be carried by her older brother.

"In fact, you'll be able to see my home very soon! It's always surrounded by cats and dogs because they can smell all my food inside, but I never let them get anything. Never!"

Cammie/Porky bounced higher than ever, and Minjae laughed before turning his attention to the window, eager to see if he could spot a mansion like the ones Leon described. He'd heard the people in 1 were _so rich_ , some of them lived in _castles_. He'd always wanted to see a castle.

Right now though, outside was . . . kind of disappointing. Maybe it was because of the rain, but everything looked grey and gross and falling apart. Some of the buildings stretched way high, higher than Minjae had ever seen, but they looked more like big lumps of stone than fancy palaces, and lots of them had broken windows, or giant holes where the walls should have been. There weren't even any pretty fields of golden crops to make things look nice.

Maybe this wasn't really 1. Maybe all the castles were coming up, and Minjae just had to wait. This couldn't be what it all looked like. Things were going to get better. 1 was going to be prettier, and then they'd be in 4, and they'd see the _ocean_ , which might be even cooler than castles. And they were going to find Papá again, and get a pretty beach house like the ones Leon always talked about, and things were going to be all right. Just like his siblings promised.

* * *

The first promise would be broken shortly when Minjae would realise 1 _wouldn't_ become any prettier. What he had just been staring at _was_ the nice part of the district—after it had been destroyed by the looters. The wealth gap was cavernous in 1, and after Mayor Opulence had died, chaos had overtaken the district. The only reason they'd held out against the Capitol for so long was because even Panem's notorious dictator was reluctant to send men and women into such a hellhole. Only monsters could survive in such a place.

Camille Colbert was one such monster. She didn't mind the title. Better a monster and alive than dead and a saint. Especially if resorting to violence meant keeping her sister safe.

Tonight, though, she wasn't fighting or stealing from anyone. Even she had hit her limit. Brandon Haller, the pickpocket who had taken them off the barbarous streets of 1 to the slightly less barbarous back alleys, had been caught and publically executed three days ago. Not by a rival gang, or a desperate street rat, but by _Capitol_ men. Slowly but surely, their soldiers had finally grown enough balls to invade, and the results weren't looking good.

So Camille was getting the hell out of there. With her sister Carlyn in tow.

If she would just come quietly.

"Why would Alycia want us to meet her at the mine?" Carlyn hissed as they ducked into a shadowy alley upon hearing footsteps. A man passed by their hiding spot—just a harmless old bum, thank Panem—and then they were off again, slipping through the darkening streets. "Wouldn't it be safer to travel together?"

"She had some last minute goodbyes for her siblings. Didn't want to hold us up."

"I can't believe she agreed to leave them. She was so adamant about staying when we last talked."

Camille didn't answer, too focused on analysing a building around the corner. Surprisingly, its windows weren't broken, but they were open. A trap made by snipers?

She tossed an old tin can on the ground out into the open, waiting for a reaction. When none came, she deemed it safe, and they continued on their way.

Or would have, had Carlyn not pulled her back. "Cam? Alycia _did_ agree to leave them, right?"

"Of course. Why else would she be heading to the mine?"

"Rephrase: She _will_ be at the mine, yes?"

"Carlyn, would I lie to you?"

The answer was irrevocably yes, but Carlyn didn't know that. She still believed her sister could do no wrong, and for that, Camille was immeasurably grateful. The whole damn country could think she was a monster, so long as her little sister still looked up to her.

Except Carlyn had already seen too much of Camille's true colours. She'd found out about Brandon and the stealing, and then she'd seen Camille ignore his pleas for help as he was captured, coldly turning her back on him so long as it saved Carlyn. Still, her sister had never questioned her motives, but somehow, Camille figured forcing Carlyn to leave her supposed "girlfriend" behind would be worse in her sister's eye than letting some pickpocket get executed for crimes he had undoubtedly committed.

The thought almost had Camille turning around, but then she remembered Brandon's screams as they shot him in the city's square, trying to send a message to the rest of the criminals in the area. They'd catch her for sure, and they could punish Carlyn by association.

Over her dead fucking body.

They continued their race to the mine, knowing they didn't have much time left. Word had gotten out in 1 that 6's trains used the rundown tracks running through the old diamond mine, and since then, street kids had been killing themselves trying to jump onto the speeding cars. The train never stopped in 1, oh no, no easy way out for the filth, but rumour had it a few had actually made it on and all the way to 4. For years, Camille had weighed the odds and found them in favour of staying, but now the scales had finally tipped, and they actually had more of a chance of living if they tried to make the jump.

It would be okay, she told herself. She and Carlyn had honed their agility ever since Brandon's death, preparing for this day. Leaping from apartment roof to roof might not have been quite the same thing as dropping onto a racing train, but it was the best they could do.

They _would_ make it. They _had_ to.

* * *

Felix _would_ do it. He _had_ to.

Still, he could barely find the courage to knock on the Threes' compartment door. Surely he'd tip them off right away that something was amiss; his heart was pounding loud enough for those three cars down to hear it. The world was spinning around him, yet thoughts of his siblings were just enough to anchor him in reality. He couldn't pass out. He couldn't fall them.

 _Tap, tap, tap._

Even his knock sounded nervous, but there was nothing he could do about it. Already he was regretting his decision, but already he could hear movement in the compartment. He was committed.

This was it.

"What do you . . . oh, it's you." Thisbe Von Patten stared, unimpressed, from the open door. "Come to stare some more? I've heard Ones are even prettier than Threes, why don't you take a step outside and check?"

He managed a strangled laugh at that, eyes darting from Thisbe to the two girls sitting behind her. Ardelia . . . and Thalia.

Felix still didn't know which girl was his target, but he could guess. Sisyphia had said she was a scientist, and the only girl who'd shown a remote amount of brains was Thalia Silverlake. The other two were all but hired muscle. So it was her, then.

Of course, muscle didn't mean the others weren't smart, and Thalia could always be some other innocent genius from a district rumoured for its smarts, but he had to shove those thoughts out of his mind. They were excuses to delay, and if he kept conjuring up new ones, he'd never get anywhere. And then Nick and Nina would suffer for it

He _had_ to do it.

"Um, I'm actually . . . having some problems. In the engine room." He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, hoping he simply looked nervous rather than downright terrified. "One of the dials on the control board has stopped working. I need it up and running to, uh, regulate the flow of coal, but I don't really know how the board works. I'm more of an engine guy."

Thisbe's frown deepened. "Don't you have other mechanics for that crap?"

"They're all busy, and they'd never let it go if they found out I didn't know it. I, um, might have tricked my way into this job. Just a bit. It was the only way to get my family on here."

Thisbe snorted. "Great. Good to know our lives are in the best of hands."

Even as anxious as he was, Felix still felt a small twitch of anger. In reality, there was nothing wrong in the engine room, and even if there was, you could sure as hell bet he knew how to fix it. He was tarnishing the Twisp name by pretending he was incompetent, but he hoped his ancestors would forgive him. Right now, he had to seem helpless; he needed the sympathy card to draw his target out.

His _target_. Dear Panem, what was he doing?

"It's all right," Thalia said, hopping up from her seat before Thisbe could open her mouth to mock him some more. "I don't mind helping. The control board, what make is it?"

Felix's mouth was so dry, he could hardly get the words out. "TCS 1373."

Thalia nodded, already pushing past Thisbe and out into the hall. "I've done a bit of circuit work with the 1370, but I heard they didn't upgrade much when they moved to the new model."

Felix stared after her. He'd never heard her speak more than a few words at a time, even when working on the air unit with her, and now she seemed to be almost . . . rambling. As though she was nervous as well.

Whatever her reason, there was no chance it was as good—or rather, as bad—as his.

Swallowing hard, he rubbed his hands together and followed her to the engine room.

* * *

They were close. So, so close to the mine, and they hadn't even had any run-ins with other vagrants. In fact, the streets of 1 seemed, for once, miraculously empty.

Camille should have known it was too good to be true. But by the time she realised it, it was too late.

She didn't even figure it out for herself. The two of them were approaching the edge of the district and the tracks that would get them out of there when they were forced to freeze in an alley as something moved beside a trash bin not three feet from them.

Already Camille had slid her knife from her sleeve into her hand. Taking a step in front of Carlyn, she tensed, raising her weapon before her.

The blade caught the glow of the street lamp beyond the alley, revealing her position. The indistinct shape turned towards her, and with a curse, she leapt forward—

"Please! Please, I don't have anything with me!"

Camille skidded to a halt, but her momentum still carried her forward; only Carlyn's quick hands on her arm stopped her from sticking the person with her knife. A murder her sister would have witnessed.

Heat rose to her cheeks as she shoved her blade back up her sleeve. She couldn't keep doing this in front of Carlyn; one day, her sister would realise Camille was no different than the rest of 1's scum, and then she would leave her.

She was already doing so now, stepping away from Camille's side to approach the trembling figure on the ground. The voice that had spoken was a man's, and vaguely recognisable at that, but Camille didn't connect the dots until Carlyn spoke his name.

"Mr. U?"

Of course—it was Udolf, one of the friends Carlyn had made during their time on the streets. Whereas Camille had only associated with pickpockets and murderers, Carlyn had managed to find only kindly old men who handed out food for free to those even less fortunate.

"What are you doing out here?" Carlyn whispered, helping the man to his shaking feet. "Did something happen to the tower?"

Due to his generous nature, Udolf had amassed a lot of fame and a certain amount of respect on the streets. Not even the worst criminals would go after him for fear of being mobbed by an army of angry urchins. It was this security that had led Udolf to establish a base he'd never had to leave, where everyone knew they could pick up scraps of food whenever he happened to find some. There wasn't a street kid alive in Goldenglow City who didn't know about "The Diamond in the Rough", the mine tower so named for its position next to the abandoned mine.

The destination Camille and Carlyn where just so happened to be heading.

"Did someone kick you out?" Carlyn already had her fists raised, and Camille could tell she was scowling even in the dark. "Give me their names and I'll—"

"No!" Udolf lunged for her arm, so suddenly Camille nearly kicked him. "No, no, child, don't go near that place."

Carlyn froze. "Why?"

"Capitol men. They've crossed the border, taken over the mine."

"But . . ." Carlyn whipped her head around to stare in horror at Camille. "The train's coming through there."

"They know!" Udolf cried, gripping her arm tight. "Didn't you hear? Six has fallen, they know exactly where the train is going. They're planning an ambush!"

With that one word, Camille's entire world came crashing down around her. The pain in her chest as all the hope withered in her heart was too much to bear.

But it was nothing, _nothing_ compared to the fear she felt as Carlyn wrenched her arm out of Udolf's grip and took off in a dead sprint towards the mine.

"No. Carlyn! _Carlyn_!"

"Alycia is there!" her sister screamed back before her words were lost.

Camille tore after her, shouting for her to stop, but her sister couldn't hear, or she didn't _want_ to hear. She was too fast. No, no, _no_!

Camille would never catch her before she ran right to her death.

* * *

Onboard the _Revenant_ , the engine room door was opening. Two people were admitted before it closed again.

A lock slid in place, keeping all others out.

Felix kept his hands on the deadbolt, breathing in as deeply as he could. The heat from the engine, usually so relaxing, made his legs turn to jelly and his mind to mush. He didn't even hear Thalia speaking until she repeated herself for the third time.

"Um, Mr. Twisp? The dials seem to be fine."

"What?" He jumped, whirling around to face her. "No, no, that one there is stuck." His finger jabbed at the biggest one in the room, which couldn't have been working better. "Trust me, it's not supposed to be pointing at fourteen."

Thalia rose an eyebrow, but nodded all the same. "All right. I might need a screwdriver then, just to get at the circuits in the back."

Her gaze wandered to his toolbox, unassuming in the corner of the room. Felix swore in that moment he was going to throw up.

Instead, he opened his mouth and said, "Y-Yeah, I'll get you one."

He bent low over the toolbox, grabbing for he screwdriver on the top shelf and thrusting it blindly behind him. Thalia's hand brushed against his as she plucked it from his fingers.

She felt so warm. So _alive._

His heart pounded as he returned to the toolbox, trembling hands removing the various shelves and drawers while Thalia tinkered with the dial. The clasp for the box's fake bottom was tiny, and with his sweaty, shaking fingers, it was almost impossible to undo.

Almost. But he did it. He did it, and he was going to do it, and dear _Panem_ , what was he doing?

"Not that I'm a train expert or anything," Thalia said, analysing the back of the unscrewed dial, "But I am pretty sure this is working fine. Look, I'm flattered, but if you did just want to speak to me alone, there are other, better ways to do—"

She turned around, and her words died in her throat. The barrel of a gun was pointed directly at her head.

* * *

"Alycia! ALYCIA!"

"Carlyn, stop!"

The stone cliffs by the mine echoed with the force of their shouts, each one making Camille flinch. Capitol soldiers may not be in sight, but she knew they were here—and she knew they could hear.

"Alycia!"

"Carlyn, enough!"

Finally closing in on her sister, Camille didn't hesitate to leap on her back, taking her down to the ground. Carlyn gasped as they hit the ground, air knocked from her lungs and blood filling her mouth, but Camille couldn't care about that right now. A little pain was nothing so long as they stayed alive.

Carlyn spat out a wad of red saliva and struggled beneath her sister's wait. "Cam, let me go. Let me go! Alycia!"

"She's gone!" Camille shouted over her sister's shrieking. "She heard the news like everyone else and took off. She's _fine_ , Carlyn!"

"You don't know that! Alycia, Alycia, ALYCIA!"

"Goddammit, she was never here!"

Camille's last words echoed back to them, pulling both girls to a halt. Beneath Camille, there was no more thrashing, no movement at all until Carlyn managed to roll onto her back beneath her sister's legs, staring up at the face of the girl she'd once trusted.

"What?" she whispered, her quiet tone carrying more power than one thousand screams.

"I lied," Camille said, suddenly glad it was dark so she couldn't see her sister's face. "Alycia was never coming, I just told you that to get you here. I was trying to keep you safe, Carlyn, don't you—"

The punch came out of nowhere. Camille's head snapped to the side, her body moving with it, and suddenly it was Carlyn on top, raining down blind blows as tears fell from her cheeks.

"You _bitch_!" she screeched, punctuating each word with a hit. "How could you do that? _How could you take me away from her_?"

Camille had ben in this situation before. A crazed beggar jumping her for food or money they thought she had. Their intention was to kill, and you could only survive if yours was the same.

Her knife was back out before she could think. In the darkness, face erupting in pain, ears surrounded by inhuman shrieks, it was impossible to remember her opponent was her sister.

She stabbed forward with the knife, and then _she_ screamed, because she did remember.

"Carlyn! Carlyn, no!"

Her free hand shot up to clutch a sister she could practically see dying before her, but all her fingers found was air. The knife, too, was held up only by her arm, not stopped by a body before her.

Carlyn had moved. Just before Camille had nearly thrust a knife into her heart.

She'd nearly killed her sister.

"Carlyn," she whimpered, forcing herself up on her elbows. "Carlyn . . .?"

"Shh."

She was there—thank Panem, she was there. Carlyn had rolled off her older sister to kneel at her side, unaware even that Camille had pulled a knife. In between punches, her attention had been drawn to something else.

"Look," she whispered, her pale face shining in the darkness as she raised a finger towards the cliffs of the mine.

Up above them, blocking out the stars, there were silhouettes of men. Men working along the rocks, just above the entrance to the mine, doing something impossible to distinguish.

Their forms disappeared, and all became clear as an explosion deafened the two girls sitting by the tracks.

Camille's head spun as she fell back onto the ground, hands plastered over her ears, vision dancing with afterimages of the bright bursts of light. The detonation . . . dynamite, had to be dynamite . . . and Carlyn . . .

She grabbed blindly at the air around her, desperate to feel the presence of her sister. Her heart pounded as her vision cleared, fearing she'd see the worst, but no, Carlyn was there at her side, cursing without sound as she too clutched her ears.

Camille hardly had time to feel relieved before she caught sight of what the blast had accomplished. Dust and darkness clouded the air, choking her lungs, but she could still make out the diamond mine entrance.

Or rather, where it had once been.

The explosion had brought the cliff face down, huge boulders plummeting to the ground where the train tracks ran. Metal rails dented and wooden boards snapped from the force, turning the path to ruin. Worse still, the tunnel through the rocks was completely sealed, blocked by a mountain of debris charred as black as the shadows. It was hard to spot from here; from a speeding train, it would be impossible.

Camille's head whipped to the left, looking down the length of the tracks. In the distance, small pinpricks of light could be spotted, growing larger with each passing second.

 _Revenant_ chugged on, its crew unawares, heading straight towards its demise.

* * *

"What is this?" Thalia asked slowly, her tone the forced calm of someone melting down inwardly.

Felix only had the strength for two words. The rest of his energy had been funneled into his arm, holding the gun in place. "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to do this."

"I'm so sorry."

"Look, whatever you want, I'll give it to you." Her voice was higher now as she stepped forward, hands out in a placating gesture.

Felix flicked the safety off in response, stopping Thalia in her tracks. Blood drained from her face, until she looked almost as terrified as Felix.

"Don't do this," she whispered, slipping down to the floor, kneeling before Felix as if she was a beggar and he a king. " _Please_."

He lowered the gun until it sat directly in front of her head, vision blurred by the tears that filled his eyes.

 _Nick and Nina. Nick and Nina. Nick and Nina._

He swallowed a sob. "I'm sorry."

His finger slid over the trigger. Thalia screamed.

Instead of a gunshot, there was an almighty crash. The two were thrown across the engine room, and their worlds went black.

* * *

At that moment, a girl stepped out of a compartment not four doors down from the engine room.

Inside, Nicholas Twisp was regaling Jabez Smithfield with the barely half-true story of the time he dropped a sack filled with motor oil on a Capitol soldier, but Nina Twisp sought a more familiar presence. Jabez was kind, of course, and a perfectly nice boy, but Nina wanted her brother in that moment. She'd hardly seen him once since they'd got on the train, and while she knew he was busy, she needed him desperately now. The news of 6's surrender had chilled her to her core; she had friends still in the district, what would happen to them? All she could imagine were horrible situations, and she needed Felix to reassure her none of them would come true.

He had the engine shift tonight, she knew, and he was working it alone. There was no better time to talk.

She padded down the hall until she reached the maintenance door, raising her hand to knock. The first syllable of her brother's name was just gracing her lips.

"Fe—?"

A crash. A scream. A girl thrown into the air.

Nina Twisp hit the car ceiling and dropped like a ragdoll. Her neck broken, she was dead before she hit the ground.

* * *

At that moment, an older girl was flirting with a much older man.

"Come on." Ryla stretched out across the compartment seat, making sure all her best assets were on display. "Don't tell me all Six men are sticks in the mud."

Mack Kenworth peered over the papers in his hand, brow furrowed. "Uh . . . aren't you here to complain about the rations?"

"Complain? Panem above, no. I know nothing in this country is free. So let's make a deal."

Mack eyed the girl's ratty dress. "You don't look like you have much."

"Then, honey, you're looking in all the wrong places."

Ryla readjusted herself, making sure her ample cleavage was on full display. It took him a few minutes, the dullard, but then he clued in.

"What? _Fuck._ " Mack shook his head before burying it back in his papers. "Get out."

"Aw, what's the problem?"

"So many things. I have a wife—"

"She's not here."

"I have a daughter—"

"That's not relevant."

"She's _your age_."

"So? I like older men." Ryla smirked. "Don't tell me you've never looked at a younger girl and dreamt of all the things you could do with her."

"The only thing I want to do when I look at you is put you through school, and buy you new clothes, and try to keep you from turning into . . . this." Mack used his papers to gesture to Ryla, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the ground. "Look, if your situation is this bad, I will _see_ if I can get more food in for you. All right?"

Ryla, who had been leaning forward in her best seductive pose, leaned back, surprised. Not by the result—she'd expected to get those rations one way or another—but the way to get there had been surprisingly . . . easy.

Huh. Maybe there were some semi-decent people left in the world

There may have been. But Mack Kenworth would no longer be one of them.

With a violent _crash_ that shook the whole car, Mack and Ryla were thrown out of their seats. The young girl fell to the floor, every limb bruised and screaming from the impact. She was used to pain though, and with gritted teeth, managed to roll over and check what happened.

The back of Mack's bloody head was the first thing that came into view. He'd been launched face-first into the glass pane of the door.

Ryla stared at the sight before her, brow furrowed, as though she couldn't quite understand it. She'd seen such gore before, on the streets, but she thought she'd left that behind. She thought . . .

She sat there, numb and silent, before her sisters opened the door and found her. It wasn't until Winnow started screaming that Ryla realised she was probably supposed to do the same.

* * *

At that moment, another story was being told to the Nuncio family.

"For our next tale: Porky Fatface visits Nine!"

"No!" Minjae cried, clapping his hands over his mouth. "He'll eat all our grain!"

"You bet he will," Leon said, cradling Cammie in one arm and glaring down at her. "We'll have to chase him out with pitchforks. Out, out, out!"

He poked Cammie with three fingers, smiling as she giggled in response. Minjae laughed too, snuggling closer to Chia, while Umma tried to hide her amusement.

"That's enough," she said finally, taking Cammie back from Leon. "No one is chasing my daughter with anything. And I told you to return that hat."

"Aww," came three disappointed moans. Even Chia had chimed in, and it made Minjae smile.

"No protesting," Umma said, putting on her stern face as she faced Leon. "You could get us into trouble. Return it, now."

"But what about the stories?"

"If you're good and give it back now, then maybe I'll tell you one of my own."

Leon's face lit up, and Minjae couldn't help but cheer. His brother's stories were funny, yes, but Umma's were _incredible,_ filled with heroes and gods, ghosts and ogres. She didn't tell them often, but when she did, each one of her children listened with rapt attention—even Cammie.

"Yes, ma'am!" Leon all but shouted, taking his hat and racing out the door of the compartment. Umma chuckled at his enthusiasm before hugging Cammie close. Chia, always following her mother's lead, did the same with Minjae.

For a moment, they were completely happy.

The crash shattered everything around them.

Minjae was flung, screaming, out of Chia's arm. Umma managed to hold onto Cammie, holding her close as she jerked out of her seat. Her nose hit the wall and started bleeding, but she was up and moving, checking on Minjae, checking on Chia, assuring herself that all of her children were fine.

All of her children . . .

With a cry, she lunged for the compartment door, yanking it open with one hand to find Leon. There were others in the hall, not her son, too tall, in her way, and she pushed past them all, forcing her way down the hall, crying out his name.

"Leon! Leon! _Adeul,_ where are you?"

She reached the end of the hall, baby still in hand, head snapping left and right. One way, there was more people, confused and shouting just as she had done. The other, there was only the door to the train . . . which was opening.

She stumbled forward, hand scraping for the door, somehow sure it had to be her son. Perhaps he'd been thrown outside, and now he was returning to show her he was fine, fine, he _had_ to be fine.

"Leon!"

Jimin Nuncio, Umma, mother of four, yanked the door open to find her eldest son, _adeul_ , and came face to face with a Capitol soldier instead.

She screamed as he grabbed her and pulled her from the train.

* * *

It was madness. Screaming, explosions, gunshots. Smoke, filling the car and her eyes and her lungs. Calla Ayers coughed and cried, unable to do anything but hold her brother's hand and he shoved his baton through the cracked window of the compartment.

"Out there, Calla, hurry!"

Before she knew it, he was giving her a leg up, all but pushing her out of the train. It would have been so easy to let him do it, but she couldn't let go of his hand, couldn't leave her brother.

"What about you?" she cried, scrambling to hold on.

"I'll be right behind you!"

He meant it, too, until an ear-piercing _crack_ drowned out all other sounds, followed by a rainfall of shattered glass. There was a man outside their compartment, a man with a gun thrust through their broken door, whose eyes widened and weapon rose at the sight of them.

With an almighty shove, Arum Ayers pushed his sister out the window, praying she wouldn't be hurt upon landing.

She wasn't physically, save a few cuts and bruises, but the agony she felt as her brother was torn away from her was unlike anything she had ever experienced. She couldn't lose him. He was her everything, he was all she had left!

"Arum!"

"Calla, run!"

A gunshot punctuated his last word. Calla gasped, choking on a new sob, and then before she knew it, she was on her feet, running away like the coward she was.

 _Have to get away._

 _Have to help him._

 _Have to get away._

 _Useless, worthless, scaredy-cat, trash! You're going to let your brother die too?_

There were too many tears in her eyes; she couldn't see a thing, least of all the body her foot rammed into. With a shriek, she fell, hands jumping out to catch herself before she hit the ground.

Wrists smarting, chest heaving, she rolled over to check the body, sobbing at the thought of it being someone she knew.

It wasn't, thank Panem. It was some Capitol soldier, dressed in their colours, and Calla nearly fainted in relief until she spotted the figure through the smoke in front of her. He was coming right from where their compartment had been—and he was heading right towards her.

It was another soldier. The one who had shot Arum.

 _Run. Run, Calla. That's what you do best._

Her fingers scraped against the ground, trying to find purchase in the dirt. Instead, she felt something cool and metal.

 _Run. Forget about Arum, just like before._

 _NO!_

With a wordless scream, she lifted the gun, took aim, and fired. Just like Arum had taught her: aim for the legs, not the chest, Ayers aren't killers, they're only survivors.

They were survivors. Arum, as it turned out, had survived the Capitol soldier's attack. Calla knew because she heard him scream as her bullet found its home in his thigh.

 _No._

"Arum!"

She ran towards him, the indistinct figure collapsed on the ground. All she could see was smoke, and tears, and blood. Oh Panem, there was blood all over the ground.

"Arum!" She collapsed to her knees, crawling the rest of the way forward, past the familiar shoes, the pants, the jacket. There was his face, screwed up in pain, sweat smearing the dirt across his brow.

"Arum, Arum, I'm so sorry . . ."

"C-Calla . . . go . . ."

"Arum—"

"Go!"

With his last bit of strength, he gave her a shove, but it was too late. Through the smoke, Calla spotted more forms closing in on them, and these, these _were_ Capitol soldiers, guns up as they approached the place they'd heard the gunshot.

One of them grabbed her, deaf to her screams as he held her in an iron grip. "Able-bodied. One for the camps?"

"What about this one?" another said, prodding Arum with boot, then giving him a stronger kick when the boy swore at him in response.

"One of their guards. Looks strong. Shame he's injured."

"The wound looks clean," replied the third soldier. "We've got supplies . . ."

"To be wasted on district scum? Keep it for our own men—they'll need it after this mess."

"So what do we do?"

The man holding Calla drew his gun with his free hand. "We stop wasting time."

"No," Calla whispered, then louder, louder, louder until she thought her lungs would burst, "No, no, no, no, NO!"

It was as if two shots had been fired, two bullets piercing two heads, two Ayers siblings dying that day. Calla went limp the moment her brother's head snapped back from the force of the shot, nothing moving but her lip, trembling as she silently mouthed Arum's name over and over again.

The soldiers didn't mind; hell, she was easier to carry this way. There was no struggling to be had as they lugged her over to the mine tower where their prisoners were being herded. Already, there was a small crowd being carefully watched: two sisters they'd found fighting by the tracks, a woman and a baby who'd walked right into their arms, her other children who'd followed shortly after.

Calla remained silent as her hands were tied. She didn't notice the next person they brought over, a boy with raven-black hair whose voice shook and struggled to stay smooth.

"My dear sir, there's clearly been some mistake."

"Can it, rat."

"I had no intention of boarding this train. Believe me, this is a classic case of wrong place, wrong t—"

It was only the wrong place and the wrong time for charm. The boy gasped as the soldier punched him in the stomach before dropping him to the ground, keeping one knee pressed firmly against the boy's back as he tied his hands.

"Please, sir, you've got this all—"

"Shut up. Another word, and I'll gag you too."

The boy, it seemed, couldn't shut it, and the drama that ensued played out mere feet from Calla, but she took in none of it. Nor did she stir when another boy was brought over, this one with brown, frizzy hair, the celebrity she should have recognised, if only because Arum often spoke of him. She had been told to follow him, but she didn't even react as he was beaten and trussed up right in front of her.

If Captain Manuel Smithfield's son couldn't evade capture, then they were all doomed. Slowly but surely, the train was hollowed out like a tree under siege by termites, losing life with every new attack. Five pretty girls were found and tossed out, though not before some soldiers shouted lewd names and placed claims on who would get to spend time with them first. Another girl was found hiding beneath a pile of corpses; when approached, she attached, raking her fingernails down a guard's exposed face. Only a hit with the butt of a gun saved her from being shot; instead, her unconscious form was dragged into the makeshift pen with the rest of them. For there were indeed a number of prone forms lying in between the livelier prisoners, including an older boy and girl who'd both been found dazed and bleary in the engine room of the train.

Another boy and girl were spotted near the back of the train, tearing out the pages of books and sending them flying off into the wind. They were both subdued quickly, and it was discovered their possessions were illegal copies of original novels with rebellious themes. The papers would have to be collected immediately, lest anyone from 1 get a hold of them.

Next came another brother/sister pair, the ferocious girl only subdued when her brother was caught. By then, nearly all the citizens in the trains had been taken, and _Revenant_ 's guards began to realise there was nothing left to fight for. Many of the Sixes continued on anyway, determined to die for their district with honour, but Private Reid and Cadet Von Patten were not so honour-bound. Their surrenders were accepted, and they were bound tight and watched carefully as they were put with the other prisoners.

One-hundred and thirteen in all were taken on that night. Most of them children.

Twenty-two of those children would one day find themselves in Cellblock 74.

Their nightmare had only just begun.

* * *

 _O, Death_  
 _Won't you spare me over til another year_

* * *

 _Note: Thank you for reading. Apologies for the long, rather unmanageable chapter. I didn't plan for the interludes to get this long, but as this one focuses on the majority of the tributes, it grew a lot longer than I'd intended. Rest assured, this will be the longest chapter in the story; even the other interludes will not be like this. I decided to publish it all at once since it was finished now, but if you believe it would be better split into two chapters, let me know, and I will split it and re-update the story._


	14. Where You Been, Cain?

_Stranger in the dark_  
 _The lonely night_  
 _Heard your mother calling_  
 _Where you been, Cain?_  
 _Where you been?_

* * *

It was just after midnight when Private Miles Juvenis leaned back in his seat, yawned, and muttered, "Are we going to go all night?"

Tacita blinked, for the first time in what felt like hours. It was almost physically painful to tear her gaze from the bright, enthralling screens before her and focus instead on the boy at her side.

"Agreed. Not like they're doing anything now, anyways." Pueritia, to the left of Miles, looked away from the sleeping prisoners she was watching, smiling sleepily, though there was a hint of excitement still left in her lips. "But hey, first day as official privates done! Milestone marker!"

As she said this, she swung her arm around Miles's shoulder, bringing up her other hand to their faces. A small device was gripped tight in her palm—a camera, flashing as she took a picture of the pair of them.

Tacita tried to resist rolling her eyes. Under normal circumstances, no one in Dark River was permitted so much as an electric toothbrush without her mother's permission, let alone something that could potentially create records of classified documents. Dr. Meden had fought hard on Pueritia's behalf; the girl was another one of his patients, who he'd claimed _absolutely_ required the camera as a means of therapy. Supposedly it helped her grow adjusted to her "new face", which looked like someone had taken a blowtorch to a plastic doll. By the time Tacita had arrived at Dark River, Pueritia had been well taken care of by both Dr. Meden and her newfound—or rather, re-found—vanity, but according to the rumours, she'd been anything but stable before the doctor had started his treatments.

It was easy to see why. As Pueritia chatted and flirted with Miles, flipping around the hair of her wig like it had always been a part of her natural beauty, Tacita just knew that, under the "Private Proles" exterior, the girl was exactly like the typical high school ditz that served as cannon fodder for so many of Tacita's favourite horror films.

Of course, with the war, Tacita had never made it to high school, but she assumed the best movies told it true. After all, Pueritia certainly had the flighty attitude and incessant photo-taking down pat.

She would hardly be useful. The same went for Miles. They may have endured the war, they may have been scarred by it, but their flippancy told Tacita all she needed to know about how much they truly understood of the districts' brutality. Pueritia may have taken a fiery blast to the face, but her eyes were still alight with that childish naivety Tacita had lost so long ago. Miles's too.

The pair of them were easy to dismiss. Less so was Private Ephoebus Ver Aetatis.

The dark, mysterious boy was the only thing in the observation room that could truly pull Tacita's interest away from the screens. His hard jaw and sharp cheekbones looked cut from stone, as though he were no more than a statue carved of onyx. No life could be found in his lips, which Tacita had never seen so much as twitch in one direction or another. Everything about him was stoic and silent.

Except his eyes. Eyes like two pieces of coal that glimmered with a trace of embers if you caught him at the right moment.

This morning, Tacita had seen that light. Throughout the day, it had only grown. The same inferno she felt in her stomach could be seen raging inside Ephoebus's soul, and Tacita didn't know what that meant, but the sight made her heart skip a beat.

Of course the feeling was unfamiliar to Commander Macer's peculiar daughter. She'd never before experienced the possibility of friendship.

"Pheeb. Pheeb!" Miles called, drawing their comrade's attention away from the screen he'd been watching intently. Ephoebus turned to look at him, and in doing so, looked at Tacita. She jumped and turned away.

Miles continued on, completely ignorant. "Time to hit the hay, yeah?"

Ephoebus tilted his head, considering the younger boy. Then his eyes moved, and Tacita felt their presence on the back of her head like a hot iron.

"I think that's a question for our commanding officer."

His voice was like footsteps through wet gravel. Gritty, rough, and yet, strangely pleasant. Tacita's heart did a flip in her chest, and an entire gymnastics routine when she realised she was supposed to be responding.

"I, ah, I'd like your input," she said quickly, turning her focus on Miles because Pueritia was hard to look at, and Ephoebus harder still. "How do you all feel?"

Miles and Pueritia's answers were more than obvious, but neither were given the chance to speak. A voice arose from the back of the room, cutting them off before they had so much as a chance to complain.

"I think we should all get some rest." Lieutenant Ludovic Silens leaned forward in his chair, hard stare never wavering from Tacita as he spoke. "A lack of sleep can make a fool of every good mind."

Tacita stiffened in her chair. Here it was: the first of her foreseen obstacles.

Miles and Pueritia were quick to hop out of their chairs, giggling and taking more pictures as they gathered their things and left. Ephoebus, however, remained where he was. Tacita realised with a start that he was waiting for her permission.

"You're dismissed, Private Ver Aetatis," she said, the words falling out of her mouth in a jumble. "Thank you for your hard work today."

A rough, deep sound broke through Ephoebus's lips. He was _chuckling._ "It was hardly work, Private Macer. If anything, it was entertainment."

She couldn't help but stare at his retreating back as he left. _Entertainment._ Had he really thought so too? She'd had all day to observe him, and indeed, every time she'd glanced over, he'd been just as fixated on the screens as she had been. Had he already picked his favourite prisoners—characters? Had he wanted to laugh at all the moments she had? Had he received the same thrill when he realised this was _real_ television, and they controlled every aspect of it?

She shouldn't be so desperate to know the answers. Yet she was.

How odd.

The giddy bubble blooming in her stomach made her feel like she could float all the way to her bedroom, and she very well might have, had a firm hand not come down on her shoulder, squashing every bit of hope in her heart.

"Private Macer," Ludovic hissed in her ear as he followed her out of the control room. "We need to _talk_."

Tacita exhaled slowly as they made their way down the stairs. It sounded almost like a sigh, but that couldn't be right. She shouldn't be exasperated, she should be terrified; the notion of speaking to someone alone, especially when that someone used such a gruff tone, once made her break out in a nervous sweat. Yet now she felt the most bizarre sensation overtake her, one even more foreign than friendship: confidence.

For a whole day, she'd been in control, and everything had gone exactly according to plan. Her characters' shouting, their bonding, their acts of rebellion, she'd anticipated all of it. The fruits of her labour would soon be reaped, and _no one_ was going to get in the way of that.

"What's on your mind, Lieutenant?" she asked as they stepped out into the pitch black of the camp. Her fellow privates were already mere silhouettes in the distance, hurrying towards the patches of light that beckoned them closer to their beds.

"I'm more interested in what's on _your_ mind, Private." Ludovic had yet to release her shoulder, even as they walked, and Tacita could feel his grip tightening. "Pardon my language, but what the hell was that back there?"

"What was what?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Private, I know you too well for that. Yes, your mother put you in charge, and yes, I respected that, but I am also here to give you guidance, so listen closely. Tomorrow, you will get everyone back out working in the fields as they should be."

"That sounds more like an order than guidance."

"An order straight from your mother. She gave you a task, and so far you've failed to respect it."

"As I recall, all she told us in regards to the prisoners was 'figure out how they're best used' and 'organise their work as I see fit'. Which, I believe, I've been doing."

"No, what you've been doing is trying to avoid work by coming up with this supposed punishment so you can sit inside all day instead of watching the prisoners out working in the field."

"What I am doing," Tacita said, louder now, and angrier, "Is conducting an experiment that will ensure those children never have so much as a rebellious thought again." She halted, pulling Ludovic with her, and turned to look him square in the eye. "You saw how they behaved this morning. Shouting, throwing food, telling anti-establishment stories. This camp was supposed to destroy every ounce of rebellious nature in their spirits, but, if anything, I'd say they have more than they did when they first arrived. They need to be punished."

"Hard work in the fields—"

"Is something most of them are already used to. I don't want to bore them to death, Lieutenant—I want to force them to realise what animals they truly are."

Perhaps she'd said that last part with a bit too much passion; Ludovic looked decidedly put off, though that could have also been because she'd never held eye contact with him for this long. For the first time, he was the one to look away.

"We don't have time for examples," he grumbled, setting off again. "The camp is running out of food, and we need people in the fields to keep the kitchens stocked."

"They were first planted two years ago, and how much have their yielded? Maybe one edible bushel of grain?" Tacita hurried to keep up with Ludovic as he neared one of Dark River's buildings. "Nothing can grow here, sir. This isn't a place for life."

"We still have to try. The rations situation won't get better on its own."

"But aren't we still helping by giving food back to our soldiers?"

Ludovic froze right outside the door that would take them to the barracks. Their beds were so close, but more tempting still was the small, brown bun Tacita extended out to him.

Instead of reaching for it, though, Ludovic tensed at the sight. "That was for the prisoners."

"Why should they get it?"

"If you're trying to bribe me, it's not going to work," he said adamantly.

The quick change in subject was not lost on Tacita, who smiled. She knew Ludovic didn't think the prisoners deserved food anymore than they deserved their freedom, but he was so by-the-book, he'd never come out and say it. Some more underhanded tactics might be required until he came around.

"But you seemed so concerned about the rations earlier," Tacita said, putting on the mock-confused face she'd practiced last night for hours. "I thought surely you were worried about starving. Or is it because you're bunking with your cousin who has a panic attack the moment he feels the first pang of hunger?"

Tacita had done her homework. And not just on her characters.

She'd prepared herself for this moment, but even her imagination couldn't have conjured up the savage glare Ludovic gave her now. He looked so dangerous even her newfound confidence couldn't quite keep her from quailing.

"I'm not trying to hurt you," she said quickly, holding out the bread. "Captain Vitus is a brave, brave man. I can only imagine what undergoing that siege would do to a person. How long did he go without food?"

"It's not your business," Ludovic snapped, throwing open the door and striding inside.

Tacita flinched at his tone, but she had still caught his gaze darting to the bun in her hand. Maybe all was not lost.

"So our men get barricaded in animal processing plants by sadistic Tens trying to starve them out," Tacita said, stepping into the small lobby after him and stopping him with a hand on his arm, "Yet we're still supposed to feed their ilk? Does Jabez Smithfield deserve this bread more than your cousin?"

Ludovic didn't answer.

"Please, Lieutenant, please just see that I'm trying to help us. _Us_ , from the Capitol, those who deserve it. Thousands of our people starved because of Ten, and Eleven, and Nine, and Four, and all the while, the districtmen lived in luxury. You've heard the horror stories of their war camps—do you really think they're treating their prisoners as well as we're treating ours? Do you think they're getting two meals a day?"

Still no response. It was as though Ludovic had completely shut down, leaving his expression entirely blank. Tacita couldn't read him, and she was growing desperate.

" _Please_ , Ludovic." Tacita stepped closer, pressing the bread into his hand. "Please understand."

"Tacita!"

Tacita jumped. She'd been so wrapped up in her words, she'd failed to notice the approaching sound of steel-toed boots marching down a hall, nor had she noticed the woman who had entered the lobby until her commanding tone had alerted her.

"Commander Macer," she said, turning her head to find her mother standing in the doorway watching them.

Caecilia nodded at her, then at Ludovic. "Lieutenant. You two are out late."

"We had a long day," Tacita jumped in before the lieutenant could reply. She tried to maintain a veneer of calm, but inwardly, her heart was racing. They weren't supposed to speak with her mother yet; she needed more time, or else how could she be certain Ludovic was convinced?

"I'm sure you did," Caecilia said, footsteps ringing against the metal floor as she approached. "So long, in fact, that you completely missed the progress meeting I wanted everyone to attend."

Tacita swallowed her nerves and met her mother's hard gaze. She couldn't back down now, not when she was finally feeling in control.

"Apologies, Commander. But, as our prisoners are only children, surely their status doesn't matter much to you?"

"The status of each and every prisoner in this camp matters to me. Especially when they don't show up to work."

Caecilia came to a stop before her daughter, arms crossed, staring down at Tacita in that hateful way that made her feel so small.

"Captain Simmons told me she didn't see you in the fields this morning."

"I wasn't aware we were supposed to be there." The words came stuttering out of her mouth. Tacita clenched her fists, forcing herself to get a grip. Come on, she'd practiced this excuse a million times the night before. "We found a task better suited to our charges."

"Oh? Please, enlighten me."

"Fieldwork is too easy for them. It's not a punishment. Half of our prisoners are from Nine, it reminds them of home more than anything. I felt they needed to be taught to serve the Capitol, so that's what we're doing."

"I beg your pardon?"

"We're training them to become . . . servants to the Capitol." Tacita faltered, only realising now how stupid it sounded when spoken in the presence of others. "I, um, I wanted to see if we could, ah, make the prisoners completely devoted to serving us. We're experimenting with ways to quash their rebellious nature before they get too old to learn new tricks."

Her mother stared. Tacita could feel the weight of judgement coming down on her, and she squirmed beneath it, helpless to do anything else.

"Lieutenant," Caecilia said slowly, turning to Ludovic. "What do you think of this? And what is that?" she added, catching sight of the bread in his hand.

Tacita's heart stopped.

As if coming out of a trance, Ludovic blinked, frowning at his commander. "This?"

Her chest was burning too, lungs set to burst as she held her breath.

"Late supper. We worked hard today," he said, slipping the bread into the pocket of his jacket. "And I do believe Private Macer's work so far has been profitable. It is just an experiment, but it's more useful than having another group crowding our useless fields. They were planted two years ago, and how much have they yielded?"

She couldn't believe her ears. Yet there was her mother, nodding at his assessment as though he'd actually just told her the truth.

"All right. Perhaps I'll have to come check this experiment out for myself."

"Please, Mother, not until we have something concrete to show you," Tacita hurried to jump in. "You know how I hate showing off half-finished work."

Caecilia's brow rose, but her expression was softer than Tacita could ever remember seeing it; it had been so long since she'd used the word "mother" without a mocking tone.

"Fine. But do attend our weekly check-ins. I want to at least hear how things are going."

"Yes ma'am."

"Yes ma'am," Ludovic echoed. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to get some sleep."

"Of course. Have a good night, Lieutenant."

"You as well, Commander. Private."

The look he gave Tacita seemed to last a lifetime before he finally turned and exited to the lobby's nearest hallway. Tacita watched him go until the door drifted closed behind him, her mind racing with the possibilities of what he might be thinking. She couldn't hazard a guess, but the dim fluorescents in the hall had lit the bulge in his jacket pocket as he left, and that offered her some comfort.

"Tacita?"

Her mother was already holding another door open, beckoning her towards the women's side of the barracks. She was actually waiting, rather than striding ahead like she would normally do. Did she really think the rift between them had been mended so easily?

Tacita hurried through the open door, eager to get ahead of her mother so Caecilia wouldn't catch her smile. Her peers under her control, her commander none the wiser, and Ludovic appeased; this was actually working. Step by step, her plan was coming to life. And no one, no one except her, could guess what was coming next.

* * *

 _Man and sin, Cain_  
 _Man and sin_  
 _Love each other_  
 _Eve in the dark_  
 _The lonely night_  
 _Only mother calling_

* * *

 _Note: Thank you for reading. Additionally, thank you all so much for the lovely reviews you've been leaving. It means a lot to me to get so much wonderful feedback, and I'm glad you've all enjoyed the first part of this story. With this, we've begun part 2, and I'm excited to announce that I do have a rough plan now fully drafted for this story. I've also added some more information to the website; it's still mostly faceclaims at this point, but it might help you if you're trying to picture what the Capitol characters look like, and there's some information about some of Panem's leaders on there as well._


	15. Little Lamb

_Come away little lamb_  
 _Come away to the water_  
 _Give yourself so we might live anew_

* * *

The sun was rising, golden fingers of light stretching above the horizon and turning the grey sky into a swirl of vibrant colours. It would have been beautiful, had it not been viewed from behind a grid of thick, black bars. In the new morning, they were the only thing in their world that stayed cold and dark.

Baley gave them an experimental shake— _as though that would work_ —and then a dispassionate kick, which was even less useful. Toes throbbing, no progress made, he turned his back on the bars and slid down to the dirty ground of the yard, sighing. Even here, he couldn't avoid the sight of their prison; sharp black lines crisscrossed them on all sides.

"I can't believe they kicked us out," he grumbled, focusing instead on the girl across from him. "They were the ones being obnoxious last night."

Millet opened her mouth, but it was Laurel who responded from her secluded corner of the yard. "They're assholes."

"They're _teenagers_ ," Millet said quickly, ever-present grin on full display full Baley and his sister. "They like sleeping in."

"You're a teenager," Baley put in, if only to remind himself that she indeed was. At fourteen, she was two years older than him, taller, _way_ more developed, and sort of, kind of, really pretty. "How come you're not lazy like your sisters?"

How Millet could make a smile look sad, Baley would never know, but already he'd seen her show a range of emotion without ever letting her lips droop. "My sisters are used to later nights."

Snarky mutterings came from Laurel's corner; Baley was glad she was far enough away that they couldn't hear the words. If Millet had known what his sister had said last night about the Hoare sisters, there was no way she'd be hanging out with them now.

 _Hoares indeed._ Laurel had scoffed when Baley had told her about the nice new girl he was getting to know with the silky red hair and the soft hands. Silky hair and soft hands, apparently, _weren't_ to be trusted, according to his sister, who had lived a hard life of physical work just like he and their family and everyone they knew. In a district like 9, there were very few occupations that would keep your hands soft, and while Baley was "too young" for Saiph Sarabande's stupid story, he was apparently old enough to hear all about the nasty diseases he could catch from just breathing the same air as Millet.

Laurel was behaving now, at least, arms crossed as she remained as far away from the younger girl as she could, but that could change at the drop of the hat. Time for a subject change.

Fortunately, Minjae was always around for that purpose. While they all sat—or in Laurel's case, stood angrily—around the yard, the six-year-old was racing around with boundless energy, arms flapping like the wings of a bird. Chia was off to the side, half-focused on her brother until the baby in her arms drew her attention. Cammie was making loud, whining squeals again, indicating she was on the brink of yet another meltdown.

"How's our resident bird-man?" Baley asked as Minjae raced between him and Millet. "What do you see up there, Mr. Eagle?"

Minjae skidded to a stop and whipped around, giggling. "I'm not a bird! I'm a UFO from Six!"

Baley grinned. The first time he'd seen a hovercraft fly overhead, he'd been Minjae's age, and he'd thought the same thing. Metal and round, held up by some convoluted science instead of wings or propellers, the machines _did_ look alien, especially to a district that loved its superstitious stories about fantastical creatures and crop circles. "A UFO?" he said, eyes widening. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm fighting the Capitol. With laser beams!" Minjae took off, running full speed at Baley, fingers pointed at him like guns. "Pew, pew, pew!"

Baley laughed, until Minjae actually ran into him. Not expecting it, he failed to catch the young boy who tripped over his extended legs and tumbled to the ground, guns becoming hands scraping painfully against the concrete.

Chia was up in an instant, hurrying over to her brother. So was Laurel.

"Are you all right?" Laurel's words came sharp and fast over the sounds of Minjae's wails. She was shaking Baley's shoulders, sending his back clattering painfully into the bars behind him. "Did he hurt you?"

"No. No, Laurel, I'm fine. Jeez, Chia, I'm so—"

"Don't apologise," Laurel snapped before he could get a single "sorry" out. "It's _her_ brother that attacked you." Her tone turned accusing as she rounded on the other girl. "What the hell do you think you're doing, letting him run around like that? Control the little shit, or keep him on a leash."

" _Laurel_."

"And get him out of here," she continued, completely ignoring her brother to jerk her head violently in Minjae's direction. "Honestly, is it not possible to go five minutes without hearing one of them cry? What kind of a sister are you?"

Baley turned to Chia, hoping to convey his apology with an expression, but she wouldn't look anywhere except the ground. A drop of water darkened the concrete beneath her feet, but the sky above was clear as day. Laurel had gone too far, again, and now all three of the Nuncios were crying.

"I'll take Cammie," Baley said, pulling the baby from Chia's arms before Laurel could object. "You help Minjae."

She took her brother's hand and scurried out of the yard without so much as a word said. Considering Laurel's death glare, Baley didn't blame her.

"What the hell are you doing?" Laurel hissed as soon as the door swung shut behind Chia. "I told you to stop touching her germbag siblings."

"She needs help, Laurel. I thought you'd understand."

He didn't mean to sound bitter, but his tone was unmistakable. Laurel's eyes bulged almost comically, though Baley wanted to cower instead of laugh.

" _Excuse_ me? I seem to recall we were absolutely fine. And _I_ was only nine."

Baley wanted to add that she hadn't had to care for a baby on top of his six-year-old self, but thoughts of the repercussions kept him silent. Instead, his head dropped, and he let Laurel's lecture wash over him, with emphasis on how dirty Cammie was, how she cried too much, and was probably sickly, and Baley was going to fall ill and die if he kept handling her.

"—watched Ma waste away, and there's no way I'm going to let the same thing happen to—"

"It's all right," Millet said, rising and hurrying over to Laurel's side. "I can take the baby."

Baley had almost forgotten she was present, and it made his ears burn. A sudden, reckless desire to stand up to his sister overtook him; he nearly snapped back at Laurel, right then and there, but he caught himself at the last moment. It was out of respect, he told himself, but he knew deep down it was out of fear, and it made him feel even worse as Millet took Cammie from his arms.

Laurel eyed her suspiciously. "What do you know about babies?"

"A little bit. I've lived around plenty."

Laurel's expression shifted to a malicious knowing, as if Millet had just confirmed everything she'd thought.

"I'm the middle child in a family of thirteen," Millet continued, still smiling. "Have a lot of younger siblings."

The remark was so innocent, but Baley had a feeling she'd said it knowing exactly what Laurel thought of her at the other Hoare sisters. He didn't think his heart could sink any lower.

There were words in his mind to call out to Millet as she left the yard, but they stuck in his throat, impossible to get out. Instead, he watched silently as she walked out the door, hating himself for every possible reason he could think up.

"Well," Laurel said with a huffy sigh. "Thank Panem they're finally gone."

In response, Baley rose and made his own way to the exit. If he stayed out here any longer with Laurel, his resolve might crack, and he'd genuinely regret that later.

His sister was like a second shadow, always on his heels, but at least there were others to draw their attention in the main room. The older kids were finally waking up; Baley watched as Felix Twisp, the guy who'd told them to get out this morning when they were being "disgustingly loud" staggered towards the washroom door and had his fingers on the handle when he seemed to think better of entering. The glare he shot towards Millet's sisters was subtle, missed by most, but not by Baley. No one ever thought the little kids were paying attention.

It made him even angrier as he stormed over to an unoccupied table and sat down, Laurel of course taking the seat immediately to his right. This was the only place they were apparently allowed to be, because age dictated that they weren't "mature enough" to be a part of the important groups. Saiph had laughed earlier when he saw Baley trying to join his gang, telling him they were sharing more inappropriate stories and it wasn't something he should hear. Millet's sisters were obviously excluding her, huddled together in their second-floor cell while she was out helping Chia. Hell, even Laurel had suffered for her age; when she'd gotten into that argument with Camille Colbert last night, the older girl had carelessly brushed her off, refusing to take her seriously because she was fifteen.

What was it about your sixteenth birthday that made other kids magically treat you right? Even the 8 girl who perched alone in shadowy corners was treated with a certain amount of respect by the others, and Baley was at least eighty percent sure she was off her rocker. He was twelve, not six, and not one; he shouldn't be getting the same patronising treatment as Minjae, not from Laurel, or Saiph, or any of the others.

He'd show them all, even his sister. Somehow.

Ideas were flying through his head, each one more impossible than the last, when a very real opportunity presented itself in the form of a piercing beep ripping through the cellblock.

Baley was on his feet immediately, racing towards the dumbwaiter. He knew what the sound meant, and this was his chance to prove he was just as mature and capable as Captain Smithfield's son. Jabez wasn't the only one who could hand out the food and make heroic sacrifices.

Before anyone else had so much as moved, he was already yanking out the dumbwaiter and pulling out the breakfast rations. Twenty jagged-edged tins sat in two neat little rows on a tray now unnecessarily wide with the absence of portions.

Baley didn't care. There was still enough for him to give one to Jabez Smithfield with that self-sacrificing look the older boy had worn yesterday. He was already practicing the lines in his head. _"No, no, take it. I'll be fine. You learn how to go without food when you've been surviving on your own since you were six. Oh, did you not know about that? Well, let me tell you . . ."_

He'd show them age wasn't the only thing that made you tough. For Millet, and Chia, and Laurel, and everyone who'd ever been underestimated by self-centred teenagers.

He was so excited, his palms were sweating in anticipation as he grabbed the cool tray. That should have tipped him off that it was metal, not plastic, and heavy, but he didn't stop to think. Already he was yanking it out of the dumbwaiter, surprised to find a lot more weight coming towards him than he'd been expecting.

He stumbled back, off-balance. His feet scrambled for purchase against the slick ground, but there was no traction to be had with the crappy slip-on shoes the camp had issued them. And metal slid all too easily in the grasp of damp hands.

With a crash, Baley fell, and the entirety of their morning rations fell on top of him.

Milk washed over him like white rain. Cornflakes scattered across his chest, wet crumbs sprinkling into his nose, eyes, and hair. The tins knocked together as they tumbled over him, _clank, clank, clank_ , until every person in the cellblock was looking his way.

Baley sat there on the ground, soaked, covered in wet clumps of cereal, and stared at the open dumbwaiter. He couldn't look down at the mess. He couldn't look around at the others. He couldn't believe that had happened.

Laurel, closest to him, was the first to react.

"What the fuck, Baley?" Hands like claws were on his shoulders, dragging him painfully to his feet. "What the _fuck_?"

He couldn't respond; he didn't need to. Another girl was running over, the hysterical one from 8 who looked two seconds away from a meltdown.

"The food." She dropped to her knees, making twin ripples in the puddle of milk. "What did you do to the food?"

She leapt up, eyes locked on Baley, but Laurel was in front of her in an instant, snarling, "Back off."

"He wasted it." The girl looked like a cornered animal, set to lash out at Laurel at any moment. "He wasted it!"

Laurel raised her fists, but Baley didn't see the rest. A hand was on his collar, dragging him around to face the glaring grey eyes of Camille Colbert.

"She's right." The girl—no, woman, the woman before him looked set to beat him up, but Baley couldn't even react. He felt numb, like he was watching the events, but there was no one home inside his skull to make sense of them. "And we've got no room for fucking idiots here."

"I said back off!" Laurel, changing directions, ran at Camille and shoved her back.

Caught off-guard, she released Baley, but the faint sense of relief he felt was short-lived. Camille looked murderous now, one hand a fist directed at Laurel, the other just barely peeking out from behind her back. It glinted in the fluorescent lights; one of the fallen tins, its edge looking even more serrated now.

Baley's heart jumpstarted, from frozen solid to beating a hundred times a minute. He opened his mouth, but he'd be too late, he knew it, and he couldn't even get the words out to warn his sister. _Laurel, Laurel, watch o—!_

"Holy _crap_ , guys."

That wasn't Baley.

Everyone couldn't help but turn; Saiph Sarabande had that effect on people, especially when he was in his favourite place, standing on a table, lording over them all. His arms were out, eyebrows raised in such an exaggerated expression of incredulity, it was almost funny.

"Seriously," he continued. "What the hell? I want an answer, honest. You." He pointed a finger at Camille, ignorant or uncaring to her _don't fuck with me_ demeanor. "What the hell?"

"Don't pretend to be an idiot," she growled, gesturing violently to the cereal spilled across the floor.

"So the kid makes a mistake, and your first instinct is to cut a bitch? Yes, I see you holding that tin, by the way. Drop it."

Her hold on it only tightened. "I'm _not_ a dog, you dick."

"Could have fooled me with the way you guys are acting. Seriously, is an accident really something you want to start shit over?"

Every inch of Camille's tensed figure screamed _yes_ , but then Rust Sarabande climbed onto the table with her cousin. Behind them, Jabez Smithfield and the blonde girl from 3 remained where they were, yet their allegiance was clear. When Camille looked behind her, on the other hand, she found no one. Even Carlyn was hanging back, whispering with a tall, scarred girl as though pretending she didn't know her own sister.

With one last bone-chilling glare, Camille tossed her hair over her shoulder and stalked away. She hadn't dropped the tin, but her departure was a compromise Saiph seemed willing to settle for.

One, still, was not satisfied. "What about the food?" the 8 girl cried.

Surprisingly, it was the redhead from 6 who spoke up, Calla who'd had the meltdown the day before. She stepped up to the girl, offering her a tin with a shy smile. "It's fine. See?"

Baley couldn't see the contents, but the 8 girl was at least satisfied enough to grab the tin and speed away to her corner. Immediately, Calla knelt back on the ground, taking another discarded tin and scooping as many soggy cornflakes into it as she could.

Glass, leaning against a cell at a safe distance from the action, still made his snort loud enough to carry to everyone. "Eating off the ground? I thought we weren't animals."

It was Carlyn who rounded on him, frowning. "The hell kind of street kid are you?"

"One with standards."

"Well, you can get over them, or you can go hungry 'til tonight," Saiph interrupted, hopping down from his table to help in the food recovery effort. "Calla's got the right idea."

Glass rolled his eyes and returned to his cell, but Carlyn, after a glance in her sister's direction, gave a shrug and stepped in to help. So did her companion, and Rust, Jabez, Felix—all the responsible older kids.

Baley could hardly feel his lips move, but he did hear his own, faint voice. "I'll help too."

"I think you've done enough, kid." Saiph raised his head to look him in the eye, and the worst was there was no anger present in his gaze at all, only disappointment. Like Baley was a misbehaving child. "Don't worry so much about the food next time, okay? You don't have to run to the dumbwaiter to get your portion, we'll make sure you have one."

"That wasn't . . ."

But he couldn't even finish the protest. It sounded stupid, even in his head. _I only wanted to hand out the food, to make the sacrifice, to be like you. But I couldn't even do that._

He really was just a stupid kid.

Laurel had an arm around his shoulder, dragging him away from the others. He moved slow, feet weighed down like twin anchors, giving Laurel more than enough time to start her lecture on how absolutely incompetent he was.

He could barely even hear her. His ears, for the oddest reason, were focused in on a conversation between Saiph and Carlyn.

"Not as fun to clean up when you didn't make the mess, now is it?"

"Come on, I threw one tin of oatmeal. And that was to make a statement."

"How'd that work out for you?"

"At least the Capitol knows I'm a badass now."

"I doubt they think that. You were pissing your pants when you called them on their bullshit. Couldn't even tell them to fuck off."

"And you could?"

"Don't try and wiggle your way out of this one. I dared you to do it first."

"Pretty sure I've already earned my badass card. But I'd like to see you try."

Baley turned his head, just enough to see Saiph and Carlyn out of the corner of his eye. They seemed content bickering away, lips twisted in arrogant smirks and eyes lit by mischievousness. Yet behind the facades, he could see there was apprehension. They argued over who should make the move so neither had to come out and say that they wanted to back out. If anything was going to get the guard back in here to punish them, it was directly insulting the Capitol. Even the strongest rebels had their limits.

Baley stopped in the middle of the cellblock, dragging his sister to a halt with him. Almost silent, he whispered, "Fuck the Capitol."

Laurel frowned at his side. "What was that?"

"Fuck the Capitol."

Her eyes widened, the words now loud enough to catch. "Baley—"

"Fuck the Capitol!"

He pushed her away before she could stop him and hopped onto the table Saiph was so fond of using. His eyes found the camera still covered in dried oatmeal, but it probably still worked, and that was all he needed.

"Fuck you!" he shouted again, getting used to the foreign word on his tongue. Laurel hated it when he swore, even though she did it almost all the time. "Fuck you for everything! You think this is justice? You're the cause of all of this! You pretend you didn't start the war, but you did, you did right from the beginning of Panem!"

"Baley, _shut up_." Laurel gave a sharp tug on his arm, nearly sending him over the edge of the table, but he managed to shake her off and step away, out of her reach. He wouldn't fall again.

"You could have been fair. You could have treated us well. But you didn't, even when we told you we were dying by the thousands. Starvation, disease, exhaustion—you didn't care. You could have ended this war before it even began, but you didn't, and now you think this is _fair_?"

Chia hovered by the washroom door, one arm around her baby. Minjae drooped the other protectively around his shoulder, the one she couldn't move because of what had happened to her during the war.

"You mutilate children," Baley said, and then his eyes found Millet, Millet who said she had twelve siblings. "You tear apart families. You take away our _parents_!" His voice broke, but he had to keep going. For Ma and Da. "So fuck you! Fuck—"

"Baley." Laurel was up on the table now, shaking him furiously. "Stop. Apologise, _now_."

Still, he found the strength to look towards the camera. "Fuck you!"

"Baley—"

"Fuck the—"

His last word was lost in a sharp gasp, smacked right out of his lips. He wasn't staring into the camera anymore; his head had forcefully snapped to the left, so he could see the audience of prisoners who had just watched him get slapped.

Millet had her hands over her mouth, eyes wide and pitying. His cheeks burned, both of them, one from pain, and one from humiliation.

He looked back at Laurel, expecting . . . something. That she wouldn't be there. That this hadn't happened. She was physical, yes, but never, in all their years together, had she ever so intentionally hurt him.

Her hand was still raised. The palm was red.

"I told you to shut up," she said. "You wouldn't . . . I'm just keeping you safe."

The pain in his cheek spiked. His lip trembled, and his eyes stung, tears blurring the image of his sister who stayed prepared to hit him again.

"Are you finished, Baley?"

In answer, he leapt off the table and ran for the door to the yard. He didn't quite make it before the sobs started to leave his mouth, letting everyone know just how much of a child he was.

* * *

 _Come away little lamb_  
 _Come away to the slaughter_  
 _To the ones appointed to see this through_


End file.
